


Spark

by Rei Kinneas (beatperfume)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatperfume/pseuds/Rei%20Kinneas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Collins is a regular Chicago firefighter.  Then he meets Sam, a mysterious guy who introduces him to a world he never knew existed.  You can't run from the past, even if you've forgotten what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Supernatural BigBang 2007.
> 
> I was lucky enough to have two wonderful artists who decided to work with my story. made an absolutely fabulous vid, which can be found [here](http://users.livejournal.com/wordplay__/26307.html). (Major spoilers for the story, so watch it after you read!) made two gorgeous covers for the story, both of which can be found [here](http://pics.livejournal.com/ladyvyola/gallery/000179fz).
> 
> Most importantly, a huge huge thank you to xnotalovesong who not only encouraged me throughout the writing process, but did pinch beta duty the weekend she graduated college. There were places I couldn't listen to her, and places I didn't, and any mistakes or suckage in this story are completely my own and no fault of hers.
> 
> Thanks to wrenlet, without whom this story would not exist. Back in January I said to her, "Tell me not to sign up for the bigbang" and she said, "DO IT" so I did. Without her cheerleading and putting up with my whining, I never would have finished this story.
> 
> Thanks to exsequar\ who is the queen of finding things. dairwendan for transcribing the exorcisms from the episodes. showusyoursmile, stickboyofpa, and kitchenywitch for listening to me babble about this story for months, even though they were not necessarily interested in supernatural incest or how exactly one killed an incubus. Thanks to everyone who has mentioned looking forward to reading this or being excited about it. It helped like you wouldn't believe.
> 
> Last, but certainly not least, Thank you to both of my artists. Your talent is unbelievable. Your enthusiasm gave me new energy to work on this when I was flagging. Your art made me remember why I wanted to do it in the first place, and gave me inspiration when I lacked it. Thank you. So much.

It wasn't until later, sitting on the back of an ambulance and getting looked over, that Dean even thought to wonder how the kid had known the girl was in there.

They kept him overnight in the hospital for observation, and he was left with nothing to do but think, and remember.

\---

Dean sweated beneath his equipment. Flames licked dangerously close to his face, but his mask shielded him. He ignored it and concentrated on ushering the four people with him out of the apartment building.

His coworkers would laugh if they knew, but when he was in the middle of a fire, it felt … nostalgic. Familiar. Stupid, he thought, the things that came to him when he was surrounded by flames.

Then there was no more time to think because they were out of the building and into the bright sunlight. He turned the people over to the EMTs and went to help Mike on the ladders.

He saw the kid at the same time he heard the commotion. He heard the woman screaming, "Emily? Emily!" but he couldn't take his eyes off the boy making his way to the front door of the building. He only really believed what the kid was doing when he watched him walk into the burning building without so much as a second of hesitation.

"What the fuck!" he shouted and heard Mike echo his disbelief. "Be right back," Dean said through gritted teeth and shoved his mask back over his face. He ignored Mike's protest and ran as quickly as he could back to the building.

It had only been a few minutes since he'd been inside, but already the fire was 20 times worse. It was hotter, and the ceiling was starting to crumble. Dean dodged a flaming beam and caught sight of a back turning around a corner up ahead.

"Motherfucker," he spat out and tried to hurry.

But the whole building was a deathtrap and being careful slowed him down. And it was hot. It burned, even through his heavy equipment, and that kid - that stupid fucking kid - had walked in wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt. Dean had a sinking feeling that if he found him at all, he was going to find a corpse.

He managed to make it around the corner, but he couldn't see the kid anywhere.

"Shit!"

Dean knew he wasn't going to last much longer. If he didn't find him soon, they were both dead.

That's when he heard the scream. High pitched and weak, but still audible. He pinpointed the apartment it had come from and ran.

He nearly collided with the kid at the door. Well, maybe not a kid, Dean allowed. The guy was taller than he was. And carrying a little blonde girl in his arms. Dean's training took over.

"Come on!" he yelled, and focused on getting them all out of there alive.

He thought they were dead a dozen times over - the building was falling apart around them, the fire now well and truly out of control. But falling beams and bursts of flames missed them by inches; degrading floorboards groaned but held. It was damn lucky. _They_ were lucky.

Then the door was in front of them and they were outside and into the arms of the firefighters and the EMTs and the woman screaming, "Emily!"

Dean took off his mask and took a few breaths of fresh cool air. Then he rounded on the kid.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

He'd been right, back inside the building. This was no kid. Underneath the soot and ash he was tall and lanky. Even if he hadn't been sweaty and dirty he would be scruffy. His clothes were worn, a little too small in some places. He needed a haircut, and bad. Dean took it all in, even as he yelled.

"You could have gotten yourself killed! You could have gotten me killed!"

"Nobody asked you to come in after me," the kid pointed out. His voice was rough from inhaling smoke, but his tone was reasonable.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

The kid shrugged. "Whatever, dude. We saved the girl, that's all that matters, right? Congratulations. You're a hero."

And with that he picked up a ratty backpack from beside an ambulance and walked away.

"Get back here!" Dean yelled after him. "You at least have to get looked at by the EMTs!" But the kid didn't stop. Didn't even turn around. Just held up his hand and waved before disappearing into the crowd.

"Well, shit," he said to himself. And then he was surrounded again by coworkers and anxious mothers and reporters.

\---

It was weird.

No matter how Dean tried to distract himself - TV, cute nurses - he couldn't stop thinking about that kid.

Because the more he thought about it, the weirder it all became. The kid hadn't gone looking for the girl, he'd known _exactly_ where she was. He'd come out of the building remarkably unscathed. Miraculously even. In fact, it was nothing short of a miracle that the three of them got out of there alive at all.

A miracle Dean was beginning to think that kid had something to do with.

And he had a lot of time to think. At the hospital, and then alone in his apartment during his enforced recuperation time. He couldn't stop thinking about that kid.

Because it was _weird_, he reminded himself. It was not at all that he kept wondering what the kid would look like without the dirt and sweat and soot, and if he would look even more appealing. Not that at all. It was that the whole situation was _weird_.

So weird that he finally called up his captain and begged to be allowed back to work early, just to get out of his own head.

"Fine!" Jake growled when he couldn't take Dean's whining anymore. "If you really want something to do, you can come in and help me with paperwork. But nothing strenuous, you hear me?"

"Wasn't it weird?" Dean asked Mike when they had a moment to sit down together.

"It was fuckin' nuts was what it was," Mike said. "And I'm including you in that statement too, by the way." Dean tried to explain, but Mike just gave him a confused look and said, "I think you've been home alone too long, Collins."

Dean would have argued, but they got a call, and Mike had to go, and that was the end of that.

It bothered the hell outta Dean, but after a few days he went back to work, and he didn't see the kid again. After a few weeks he still wondered, but mostly made himself forget about it.

That, of course, was when he saw the kid again.

\---

Dean left Mike and Terry at the bar early. He had the number of a woman named Stacey in his pocket, but he just wasn't feeling it tonight.

"You haven't been feeling it a lot lately," Terry had said. "Is there something you want to tell us?"

Dean had given some excuse that they bought, but he knew that wasn't going to work forever. The truth was, he didn't know what was wrong. Just that if felt good to be out of the crowded bar and into the warm summer night.

His apartment was only a few blocks from the bar, and he walked slowly, hands in his pockets. He knew he'd been off. Since that fire. Since that kid. But he didn't know what to do to make it better. He was slowly starting to realize that he'd never get answers about this, and he was going to have to deal with that. He should have been used to it, to the unanswered questions, but it burned. It burned every damn time.

Above him, a streetlight flickered.

Time, he guessed. He just needed time to let the ache of the unexplained fade, just like all the other times.

The breeze picked up, raising goose bumps on the back of his neck.

That was the only warning he had before he was picked up and thrown into a wall.

He slid to the ground, dazed, and thought, this must be one hell of a concussion, because he couldn't see anyone. No evidence at all of the person who had done it. No one trying to steal his wallet or watch.

He sat up and leaned against the wall, feeling the back of his head gingerly. Yeah, he was gonna have a hell of a bump.

Something flickered out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look, thinking it was his attacker again, but there was nothing there.

"What the hell?" he said out loud. Again, the other eye, and again nothing there.

All the hair on Dean's neck was standing up, and his stomach was fluttering like it did right before he walked into a burning building. It was a feeling that said DANGER. Dean stood shakily. Time to get out of here.

He hadn't taken one step when something slammed him back into the wall and held him there. The flickering was right in front of him now and it coalesced into the shape of a woman. No, it was the skeleton of a woman, its hair flowing around his face in the sudden wind and its mouth open as if it was screaming. Then it actually was screaming, a high screeching sound that made Dean's brain feel like it was about to explode. Dean screamed with it and would have covered his ears to try and block it out, but the woman/skeleton thing held him still. And she was leaning closer.

A loud bang cut through the sound of the screams and the woman/skeleton thing disappeared. With it no longer holding him up, Dean's knees buckled. He only just managed to control his slide to the ground instead of falling on his face. A hand stuck itself into his field of vision, offering him help up. He took it gratefully and found himself pulled upright and right into the face of the kid from the fire.

The kid's eyes widened. "Oh, it's you."

Dean pulled his hand away and congratulated himself on staying upright. The kid looked much like he had the last time Dean saw him. Same ratty clothes, same too-long hair falling into his eyes, same beat-up backpack slung over his shoulder. This time he wasn't covered in dirt and soot, and this time he carried a sawed off shotgun, which normally Dean would make a comment about, but he was pretty sure it had just saved his life.

Speaking of which, how the hell had a kid with a shotgun saved him from … whatever that was?

"Yeah, it's me. And I want some answers. Like what the hell was that, and who the hell are you? What the fuck is going on?"

The kid just blinked and stuck out his hand. "I'm Sam."

Dean rolled his eyes but shook Sam's hand. "Dean."

Sam nodded. "I'll explain on the way." He turned, put his shotgun up on his shoulder and started walking. Dean hurried to catch up.

"On the way to where?"

"The cemetery. We have to burn the bones."

\---

"We are going to get arrested," Dean said. "I could lose my job if I get arrested."

Even in the dark, Dean could see Sam roll his eyes. "We're not going to get arrested," he said. "And it will go a lot faster if you help."

Sam had traded his shotgun for shovels and they were currently digging up the grave of the woman/skeleton thing, which according to Sam was the angry spirit of Kelly Sherman. Kelly Sherman, Sam informed him, had been mugged and murdered at the very spot she attacked Dean 11 years ago, and had been taking it out on unsuspecting men every since.

"Are you sure this is the only way to get rid of it?" Dean asked as he shoveled grave dirt over his shoulder.

The thing was, Dean didn't want to believe Sam. It sounded crazy. But it was hard to deny what he'd seen with his own eyes. So here he was, digging up a grave so they could salt and burn the bones.

His life had become very strange in a very short period of time.

"So, ghosts," Dean said.

"Yup, they're real," Sam said blithely, still digging as if it was no big deal. Like he did this every night. Hell, for all Dean knew, he did. "Also spirits, poltergeists, were-beasts, vampires, demons, all of them."

"And you kill them."

"If necessary."

"It's what, your job?"

Sam snorted and paused in his shoveling. "Job implies that I get paid. It's more of a … calling."

"Some calling."

"Tell me about it," Sam said with feeling.

Dean's shovel hit something solid and they cleaned the dirt off the top of the coffin.

"Now what?"

Sam flashed him a grin and with one powerful swing splintered the lid of the coffin with his shovel. The breeze, which just seconds before had been soft and refreshing, picked up, blowing Sam's hair off his forehead. The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood up. "Sam," he said, "I think-"

But he never got to finish his sentence because an unseen force lifted Sam up off his feet and onto the ground. It pushed him across the grass and up against a tree.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. He levered himself out of the grave and picked up Sam's shotgun. The woman/skeleton thing seemed more solid now, its hands on Sam's chest, looking for all the world like it was going to suck the life right out of him. The shotgun was awkward and heavy in Dean's hands.

"Shoot it!" Sam yelled, his voice contorted with pain.

"I don't want to hit you!" Dean yelled back, trying to find the right angle. This was ridiculous, he thought. He'd never fired a shotgun before.

"It's loaded with rock salt, just do it for -" Sam broke off in a yell, and Dean felt calm descend over him. Just like in a fire, you either do your job or people die. He lifted the shotgun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.

The salt round went straight through the woman/skeleton thing and thudded into the tree next to Sam's head. The spirit disappeared and the wind died down abruptly. Sam, Dean noticed, kept his feet, but only because he was leaning against the tree.

Dean rushed to help him, taking part of his weight as they walked back to the grave. He didn't let go of the shotgun though. No longer awkward, now it felt strong and reassuring.

"We have to hurry," Sam said. "She knows what we're doing and she's not happy about it."

Sam took the shotgun and reloaded it while Dean finished breaking apart the top of the coffin. "Oh now that is ugly," he said when he caught a glimpse of Kelly Sherman's corpse. Skeleton was really more accurate.

"Here," Sam said, handing Dean a canister. "Salt them first." Dean poured salt liberally over the entire skeleton. Then, just to make sure the bitch would stay gone, he added more salt. When the canister was considerably lighter, he climbed out and sat beside Sam. Sam gave the bones a once over with lighter fluid, then held out a book of matches. "You wanna do the honors?"

"Don't mind if I do." With a flick of his wrist he lit the entire book and dropped it into the grave. Immediately the wind picked up again, but the bones caught and burned steadily. The spirit flickered in front of them once, twice, then faded completely, and the wind with it.

"Wow," Dean said. Sam smiled and got to his feet.

"So it's done?" Dean asked, just to make sure. "It's finished?"

"It's finished," Sam confirmed. "Let's go before the police show up and we really do get arrested."

A block from the cemetery Sam stopped. "Hey, I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for the help."

Dean shrugged. "You saved my life, so I guess we're even."

Here under the glow of the streetlamp Dean could see the way Sam's smile lit up his whole face. His stomach clenched uncomfortably. He didn't want to be even with Sam, not if that meant never seeing him again.

"You uh, you need a ride home or something?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah, I can walk from here. Maybe I'll see you around though."

"Yeah," Dean said. "That'd be okay"

\---

"Yo, Collins. Collins. Dean Collins. Helloooooo! Earth to Dean!" A hand waved in front of Dean's eyes and he started out of his thoughts.

"What?" he snapped, slapping at the hand.

"Man, where'd you go?" Terry asked as he and Mike sat down across from Dean.

"Nowhere," Dean said. Mike and Terry exchanged a look. Okay, that wasn't going to fly anymore. Frankly, Dean was surprised they let it go this long.

For three days he'd been trying to act normal, like everything was fine, like there wasn't some seriously scary shit out there that nobody even knew about. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. Would he run into a spirit tonight? Was that woman walking down the street a werewolf? Was Easy Listening the work of demons? Should he buy a gun? How did one even obtain silver bullets or rock salt rounds?

And then there was Sam.

"Dude, come on," Mike said. "We know you better than that. What's going on?" Dean sighed. They'd think he was crazy if he tried to explain about the ghosts, but he could try to be vague.

"The other night, after I left you guys at the bar…" he paused trying to figure out something to say other than 'I was attacked by an angry spirit.' "I met this person," he decided on.

"Ooh," Terry interrupted. "You met someone! That explains everything."

He waggled his eyebrows and Dean leveled a glare at him, but as usual, Terry ignored it.

"Not like that!" Dean insisted.

Except.

Except maybe it was like that. Because he couldn't stop thinking about Sam. Sam firing a shotgun. Sam digging up a grave. Sam smiling. All Dean knew was that Sam was the most intriguing person he'd ever met, and he wanted to talk to him again. At least see him again. But he had no idea where Sam lived or worked, or even what his last name was. And it was damn near impossible to find someone in a city the size of Chicago when all you knew about him was that his name was Sam and he needed a haircut.

"I don't even know if I'll see them again," he admitted.

"A lady of mystery," Terry nodded.

Mike looked at him with a smile. "If it's meant to be, you'll see them again," he said.

"Geez McGrady, when did you turn into a woman?" Terry scoffed.

Mike punched him in the arm. "When you started gossiping like one, Daniels. Now shut the hell up."

\---

A week later Dean walked out of the station house at the end of his shift and Sam was there.

"Hey," Sam said as he fell into step beside Dean. "So I'm doing this exorcism thing. Wanna come?"

Dean had been at work for 24 hours. He hadn't showered. He wanted a burger and a beer. He said, "Sure."

Sam smiled. "Cool. You got a car?"

They took Dean's truck, Sam giving the occasional direction and explaining the job as they drove across town. "So he's been picking up women in bars and then they're never seen again. He chooses his victims carefully - lonely women, no family, few friends, so it takes a while for them to even be reported missing. But by that time they're already dead."

"How did you know where I worked?" Dean asked suddenly. It came out of nowhere, maybe, but Sam always knew and it was killing Dean that he didn't know how. "For that matter, how did you know I was in trouble last week, or about the girl in the fire?"

Sam was silent for a moment, staring out into the growing dark. He turned to Dean. "I knew where you worked because the truck at the fire last month had your station number on it. And I knew what shift you had because I called and asked."

Okay, now Dean felt mildly stupid for not figuring that out. He reminded himself that just because Sam was kind of mysterious and hunted ghosts didn't mean that everything about him was freakin' _magic_.

"As for the other things," Sam took a deep breath, "I have these … visions. Of things that are going to happen."

Dean blinked. Well scratch that then.

"You what?"

"That's how I knew you were in trouble, and that the girl was in the building. I had visions."

"So you're like psychic? You can full-on see the future?" Dean couldn't tell in the dark, but it looked like Sam might be blushing.

"Sometimes."

Dean thought about it. "That makes sense, actually," he said.

Sam stared at him. "That's it?"

"What?" Dean fidgeted under Sam's gaze.

"Nothing, it's just that you're taking all of this surprisingly well."

"What do you want me to do, scream? Throw you out of the truck? Call you nuts and try to have you committed?"

"People have done all three and worse," Sam shrugged.

And yeah, Dean figured he was handling it better than most people would. The whole thing had thrown him for a loop at first, but when he'd gotten over the shock he'd found he wasn't as surprised as he probably should have been.

"Well," Dean explained, "The ghost stuff I saw for myself. And considering everything that's happened, you having visions is pretty much the only explanation that makes sense. Unless you were following me. Were you following me?"

"No."

"Then I guess I believe you."

"And you don't mind? About the visions?"

"Dude, you saved my life. You saved that girl's life. Why would I mind?"

Sam smiled, big and bright. "Okay. Turn left, it's just down the block."

The bar was swankier than Dean's usual haunts and he was keenly aware of his wrinkled clothes and rumpled hair. Sam, as always, looked scruffy almost to the point of homelessness, but he seemed oblivious to the looks they were getting from the perfectly pressed professionals drinking their martinis.

"Come on, I'll buy you a beer," Sam said.

"I can get it," Dean protested. He realized he had no idea what Sam did for money, since he didn't get paid for the ghost busting gig.

"No, I want to. You can get it next time."

Dean ruthlessly suppressed the part of him that went warm and glowy knowing that Sam was planning a next time. And the part that bristled with jealousy when the very attractive female bartender started flirting with Sam and Sam flirted back.

Without thinking about what he was doing Dean leaned against the bar next to Sam, too close to be entirely casual. "Ready?" he asked and watched the bartender's face go from open and flirty to cautious and disappointed.

"Sure," Sam said, and straightened, handing Dean his beer. Dean didn't look at him, afraid he'd revealed too much. If Sam knew it, for once Dean didn't want to know. He just hoped he wasn't blushing.

Sam chose a table near the back and a seat with the best view of the door.

"So your visions," Dean said once he'd taken a healthy swig of his beer, "is that how your knew about this guy?"

"Sort of," Sam said. "He got a little sloppy last time. His victim, Alice Enly, had a friend who was very dedicated in searching for her. That's what got my attention, and I did some research. Turns out there's a pattern. It's not just this past year, but 20 years ago too. And 20 years before that. Women go missing, usually about 5 or 6 over the course of a year, and are never heard from again. After it gets what it wants it leaves the person it possessed to take the blame. Classic demon strategy. Then I had a vision that confirmed it, and I think tonight's the night he's going after his last victim of the cycle."

"So how do we kill this thing?" Dean asked.

"We don't. Not exactly. The person is innocent. The demon is using his body and he doesn't have any control over it. We have to do an exorcism to get the demon out of the body and send it back to hell."

"Okay, how do we do that?"

"That's where it gets tricky," Sam said. "I have an exorcism that should work, but we need him alone, and probably restrained."

"So we're gonna have to wait until he picks his victim and leaves with her."

"Yeah, probably."

They lapsed into silence. Dean fiddled with his beer glass.

"Do you like being a firefighter?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Always wanted to be one." It was what had prompted him to get his act together as a teenager, after years of being the best delinquent he could be.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Dean said. "I wanted to help people I guess."

Sam leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. "Me too," he said.

The warm glowy feeling threatened to come back at Sam's obvious approval. "Have you ever tangled with a demon before?" Dean asked to distract himself from it.

"A few times," Sam said. He launched into a story about a possessed teenage boy in Tacoma and how he had to convince the local Catholic priest it was actually happening.

Sam stopped short in the middle of a sentence, his eyes on the door. "That's him. Wait, don't look yet. Blue suit, red tie, brown hair, sitting at the bar. Be careful, I'd rather he not know we're onto him."

As casually as he could, Dean settled his arm on the chair next to him and turned his head to the bar. He spotted the guy right away, took a few seconds to look, and turned back to Sam.

"He looks perfectly normal."

"Most possessed people do."

"So how do you know he's actually got a demon in him or whatever?" It would probably be embarrassing to try and exorcise the wrong person. And they'd probably get arrested for assault. It would be awkward to explain at work.

"There are a couple ways to tell," Sam explained. "The demon will give off a lot of EMF, so if you have a reader, that's one way." Dean didn't know what the hell EMF was, but he he'd ask later.. "And demons flinch from the name of God, so that's a way to be sure. But we're already sure, because that's definitely the man from my visions."

Sam sounded really sure, so Dean decided to bow to Sam's expertise.

"Is there a plan for how we're gonna get him alone once he leaves?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "Not really. We're gonna have to see what he does. Play it by ear."

"Great," Dean muttered. Just knowing he was in the same room as a demon made him twitchy. He tried not to look over at the man too much, but he didn't like having his back to a demon, even if the demon had no interest in him. "So what's the point?" he asked.

"What?" Sam, Dean noticed, was keeping an eye on the demon, and that made Dean feel safer.

"Killing these women every 20 years. What does the demon get out of it?"

"Who knows, with a demon," Sam said. "It could be anything. Maybe he's building up power, maybe he's currying favor with another demon, maybe he's just doing it for the fun of it. We'll probably never know."

And Dean didn't like it - hated not knowing the reason, not having answers - but they were going to stop it, and that was good enough for him.

"He's on the move," Sam said, and although he didn't move, Dean could see the sudden tension in his body; could feel his readiness. Sam drained his beer and Dean followed suit. Dean took a good look at the woman the demon was chatting up on their way out of the bar. She was a little plain, but not hideous, and she looked absolutely thrilled that a handsome, well-off man was paying attention to her.

They waited in the truck. They had a good view of the entrance to bar. They'd know when the demon came out.

Sam lit a cigarette and smoked out the open window.

"That's bad for you, you know," Dean felt compelled to point out.

Sam snorted smoke out of his nose. "So are a lot of things."

Dean was fascinated by the way the smoke curled around Sam's face, half in shadow, half in yellow street light. He tried not to stare at the way Sam's lips pursed when they blew out smoke.

The smell reminded him of being 16 and filching his foster father's cigarettes that they'd smoked behind the bathrooms on the playground when they were supposed to be in school. Dean had quit cold turkey when he started fire fighter training.

They waited. Sam smoked another cigarette. The silence was comfortable, not awkward at all, and Dean liked that. It was a little weird, sitting in the truck waiting to exorcise a demon with a guy he barely knew and feeling comfortable about it, but Dean was pretty happy. I could get used to this, he thought.

He was the one who spotted them.

"There," he said. The demon was holding the door open for the woman. "How chivalrous, when you plan on murdering her horribly," he muttered.

"Yeah, demons are all class," Sam replied with a tight smile.

They waited long enough to make sure the demon wasn't taking a car, then got out and followed. Sam kept one eye on the demon and rifled through his backpack. He pulled out a small black book and stuck it into the back of his jeans. He took out a squirt bottle of water and handed it to Dean.

"Holy water," Sam said. "The demon's vulnerable to it. Be careful. He looks like a man, but the demon in him gives him more strength than a normal human. Your first job is to get the woman to safety, then help me restrain the man. And _be careful_." Dean nodded. He wished suddenly for Sam's shotgun. Maybe it wouldn't help against the demon, but it would make him feel better.

They followed at a safe distance until the demon turned off the main drag onto a smaller residential street. Sam quickened their pace. Dean tried to control his breathing. When the demon passed the mouth of an alley Sam took three running strides with his freakishly long legs and just fucking body checked the demon into the alley.

The woman screamed and Dean clapped a hand over her mouth. "This isn't what it looks like. Go home."

But of course she didn't listen. She struggled out of Dean's grip and ran towards Sam and the demon, wrestling on the ground. The demon managed to throw Sam off and they were both back on their feet in a instant. The demon reared back to throw a punch and Sam yelled, "Christo!"

The demon faltered and his eyes flashed to an inky black. A chill washed over Dean and he shivered involuntarily.

The woman screamed again. Dean took her by the shoulders, looked straight into her panicked eyes. "Seriously," he said. "Go home. Run." She didn't need to be told again.

Dean turned back to the fight. The demon had recovered and as Dean watched as it landed a punch on Sam and threw him up against the side of a building. Dean remembered then that he did have a weapon, of sorts. He pulled open the cap with his teeth and managed to splash the demon on the face with his holy water.

Smoke rose immediately and the demon hissed, and the important part was that he let go of Sam. Then he turned his black eyes on Dean.

Oh, oops, Dean thought and he stumbled back from the demon who was now ignoring Sam and advancing on him.

Shit shit shit, he thought. He held up the bottle of holy water between them, but it felt woefully inadequate when those black eyes were staring him down. He wished again for the shotgun.

The demon smiled like he could feel Dean's fear and reached for him.

Then it was jerked back and slammed into the ground, hard. Dean looked up for Sam and found him still against the wall eyes narrowed in concentration, too far to have reached the demon.

"This," Sam said, "is pretty much my plan." He pushed away from the wall and sat down hard on the demon's legs. "Get his arms."

Dean really didn't want to touch a demon, but he sat down at its head and held its wrists down.

"I probably won't be able to hold him and do the exorcism, so be prepared for that," Sam said. He reached back and pulled the black book from his jeans. Dean watched as the demon tried to struggle but was held down by something more than Sam at his legs and Dean at his arms. Sam flipped through the pages of his book.

"Sam Ashton," the demon rasped out. Sam ignored it. "Or is it Sammy Winchester?" Sam froze, just for a second, but the demon had scored a point. Sam looked up from his book and Dean had never seen anyone look so angry.

"_Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino_," Sam growled. The demon bucked hard, whatever had been holding it down was gone now. Dean slammed its wrists back into the pavement and leaned all his weight on them. It was still a struggle to keep them down.

"_Humíliter majestati glóriæ tuæ suplicámus, ut ab omni infernálium spirítuum potestáte, láqueo deceptióne et nequítia_," Sam continued.

"Don't you wanna know about your Daddy?" the demon asked. "I can tell you all about how he's burning in hell."

"_Vade, sátana, invéntor et magister omnis fallacy_," Sam yelled over the demon. It shuddered and flickered. Dean had to force himself not to pull away in disgust. "_Hostis humánæ salútis. Humiliáre sub potenti manu Dei_."

With a distorted scream the demon threw his head back and black smoke poured from his mouth. Dean couldn't help it, he jerked away from the body, fell on his ass and shoved himself as far away as possible. But the smoke just went straight up and dissipated, and then there was silence.

Dean looked at Sam. His head hung so that his hair covered his face. He was breathing hard.

"Whu's goin' on?" the man on the ground murmured. Sam stood up and it was like nothing happened. His expression was blandly pleasant. He held out a hand the man.

"Come on," he said. "We'll help you get home."

\---

The man's name was Adam, and by they time they got him home, helped him into bed, assured him that everything would be alright, and drove back to Dean's side of town it was after 3am.

Exhaustion washed over Dean as soon has he put the truck into park and he remembered that he hadn't slept in almost two days and hadn't eaten since lunch.

Sam had been silent on the drive home. Not a comfortable silence this time, but a dark brooding one that Dean had been afraid to break. He wanted to ask what had gone back there, about what the demon said, but he didn't think Sam would answer.

"It's late," he said instead. "You can crash at my place if you want."

Sam shook his head. "Nah, I'm okay. Thanks for the ride though." He opened the door and started walking away. Dean couldn't let him leave like that. He scrambled out of his seat.

"Wait!" Sam stopped and turned back to him. Dean had no idea what he wanted to say. "Are you okay?" he blurted out. "I mean, the demon…"

Sam smiled. It was a small, exhausted smile, but it was better than nothing. "I'm fine, Dean. Really. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Dean said.

Later. Dean kinda hoped it was sooner.

\---

It was eight days before Sam showed up again, told Dean he was investigating mysterious pet mutilations in the suburbs and asked if Dean wanted in.

Sam, Dean was beginning to realize, was not big on small talk.

He bit his tongue when Sam easily picked the lock on the back door of the vet's office. Sam was not going to get him arrested. Probably. Besides, he could admit, to himself at least, that he liked watching Sam's fingers handle the lock picks.

Even with masks, looking at mutilated animal corpses was smelly, disgusting work.

"It could be a werewolf?" Sam said, poking at what used to be a dog, or at least that's what Dean thought it used to be. "Or maybe some kind of demented ghul?"

"So that was you last week, right?"

"What?"

Dean wondered briefly why being around Sam caused him to lose all skill at easing into a conversation. "Last week," he said. "Throwing that guy around without touching him. That was you, right?"

Sam definitely blushed this time. "Yeah, uh, that was me." A box of rubber gloves floated over from across the room and settled into Sam's hands. "Telekinesis," he said.

Dean let out a low whistle. "That must come in handy. You could have told me, dude."

Sam ducked his head. "I know, I just. It's kind of a new development, and I'm not really used to it yet."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "That happen often? New powers just popping up?"

Sam's expression darkened. "No." He covered the ex-dog back up and took off his mask. "About six months ago I was in Michigan, and there was this telekinetic. He was psycho - he used his powers to kill off his entire family a couple years ago and he didn't stop there, and I was trying to stop him. After everything was over, I suddenly had this power I couldn't control."

"What happened to the telekinetic?" Dean asked. Sam wouldn't look at him.

"He shot himself."

Dean recognized that tone. An 'I don't want to talk about it' tone. Dean could understand that.

"You seem to have it under control now though," he offered.

"Yeah well," Sam shrugged, "six weeks holed up in a backwoods cabin, practicing so I don't accidentally kill people in my sleep. Let's go, I don't think we'll find anything else here."

In the truck Sam held a flashlight between his neck and shoulder and made notes in his book.

"It must have been hard," Dean said. Sam didn't even pretend not to know what he was talking about.

"Yeah," he said. "The visions I was used to. I can't always control them, but I can manage them, you know? Telekinesis was so far out of my understanding."

"How long have you had the visions anyway?" Sam hesitated and Dean realized he might be getting a little personal. He couldn't help wanting to know everything about Sam, but Sam didn't seem like the sharing type. And Dean really really didn't want to scare Sam off. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to," he said hastily.

Sam shook his head. "No, it's fine. I've had them since I was a kid."

"Geez. Now that must have been rough."

"It was."

And that, right there, was Dean's signal to stop prying, no matter how much he wanted to know.

"You know," Dean said. "I could give you my cell phone number and then you could call me instead of showing up at the station every time you want to take me to look at corpses."

Sam perked up at the change of subject. "Okay," he said, and Dean felt better for having made him smile.

\---

Sam did call a couple days later, and that's how Dean found himself hiding behind a conveyor belt in a warehouse to see if the foreman was putting curses on union leaders.

"So where _do_ you live?" he asked Sam. He'd been wondering for a while. Sam never let Dean give him a ride home no matter how late it was or where they ended up. And the foreman was taking a damn long time to show up and Dean was bored.

"Oh you know," Sam said. "Around."

"Around? What does that mean?"

Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Outside, sometimes. Or the shelter on Ogden. Or, I have a few friends and sometimes I stay on their couches."

"Dude, you could have told me you didn't have a place to stay!"

"I do so. I have several, I just told you."

"I mean a real place to stay," Dean said, exasperated.

"Oh. Well, usually I don't stay long enough in one place for that to really matter. I follow the jobs, you know? All over the country."

Dean clenched his fist at the implication. That this wasn't permanent. Sam wasn't staying. Sam was going to leave. He tried not to think about it by bombarding Sam with questions. "How do you get from place to place? How do you buy food and clothing and guns? What do you do in the winter?"

"Hitchhiking, mostly," Sam said blithely. "I do odd jobs. Hustle pool. And I try to stay south in the winter."

Dean dropped his head into his hands. "Hitchhiking," he mumbled. "Hustling pool." Sam could take care of himself, he tried to tell himself. Sam was armed. It didn't help.

"Anyway, it doesn't really matter," Sam went on. "I'm gonna stay in Chicago a while."

Dean brightened and tried not to let it show. "Yeah?" he said. "Why?"

"There's still a lot to do," Sam said. "Besides, I kinda like it here."

Dean smiled into the darkness, but before he had time to enjoy his fluffy bunny feelings, the foreman attacked them with a tire iron.

"You know," he said to Sam later as he was putting a band-aid on a cut over Sam's eye, "I have a couch. You can stay with me if you need to."

"I'm cool," Sam said. "Thanks though."

And Dean absolutely wasn't disappointed, because that would be lame.

\---

"Can I ask you something?"

Dean looked up from his coffee in surprise. They were at an all night diner because digging up graves was hungry work, and he had finally convinced Sam to let Dean buy him a meal, the skinny bastard.

"Shoot," he said. Sam rarely asked him anything more serious than 'do you wanna hunt this thing with me?' or 'are you okay?' or 'pass me the rock salt, will you?'

Sam fiddled with a sugar packet. "Why do you do this?" he asked. "Why do you help me all the time?"

Dean thought of and discarded a lot of answers. Not, you can't do this by yourself, because clearly Sam could and had been for a long time. Not, you asked me to, because that was only part of the truth. Not, I can't stop thinking about you, because no.

"I was a foster kid," he said finally. "Did I tell you that?" Sam shook his head. "Well I was. I never knew my real parents, or if I did I don't remember them. And being a foster kid sucked, always moving around, different homes. I wasn't … I wasn't the best behaved kid and no one was ever really eager to keep me. So, like most kids in my situation, when I was a teenager I decided I was going to find my real parents.

"It was a pretty stupid idea to begin with, because all my file said was that I'd been abandoned in a motel in some backwater Nebraska town. My parents obviously didn't want me, but I decided to look anyway. You know what I found?" Dean took a gulp of his coffee. It was cold.

"Nothing," he said. "I couldn't find anything. The municipal building in the stupid backwater town'd had a fire a couple years before and all the records burned. There were supposed to be duplicates in the county office, but mine just weren't there. Not on the computer and not on paper. It was like I didn't exist. No record of a Dean Collins born in 1979 anywhere." He looked at Sam, listening intently, like he was really interested, like he really cared. It eased the ache he felt every damn time he thought of the whole situation. "Anyway, I guess that's just a really long way of saying it feels right. It feels right to be doing this. Does that make sense?"

Sam smiled, bright as Dean had ever seen him, like Dean had just given him the best present in the whole world. "Yeah man," he said. "That makes sense."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, but apparently Sam hadn't satisfied his curiosity.

"How old were you? When you went into the system?"

"Just turned six," Dean answered. That part of his file he knew well.

Sam frowned. "That's pretty old," he said. "Shouldn't you remember something about your parents?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. But when I was seven I got this freak strain of pneumonia. A bunch of kids in the neighborhood got it, and all the other kids in the foster home, too. I was in a coma for like a week, they didn't think I was gonna live, and when I woke up, I couldn't remember anything from before I got sick." It was something he hadn't known to be bitter about until years later. Any clue he could have had to his family stolen by a stupid virus.

Sam looked thoughtful, but didn't push anymore and Dean was grateful. This was stuff he'd never told anyone before. He didn't realize how exhausting it would be.

"I'm adopted," Sam said. Dean had figured that out from what the demon said, but this was the first time Sam had offered information about himself voluntarily, so Dean smiled.

"Yeah? Cool."

\---

Dean went to work, and out with Mike and Terry, and on hunts with Sam. He learned about EMF, and how to shoot a crossbow, and that ghul guts smelled gross. He protected his apartment with charms and he met a thought reader who made him blush when she recounted the very vivid fantasy he'd been having about Sam. Thankfully, Sam had not been in the room at the time. Sam started teaching him Latin, and Dean taught Sam how to change the oil in his truck.

It was the weirdest fucking summer he could ever remember. Dean was pretty sure he'd never been happier.

He was washing dishes at the station one night in early August when Terry came over and poked him in the arm. Dean flicked soapy water at him.

"What was that for?"

"You," Terry said. "You're acting weird."

"No I'm not," Dean said automatically.

"Yes you are. You were whistling I Was Made for Loving You."

"I was not!"

"You were," Terry said. "And you've been acting weird for a while. Something to do with your mystery lady perhaps?"

"None of your business," Dean said. Actually, he thought Mike and maybe Jake had already figured it out. Not the hunting business, but Sam. Because Sam still showed up at the station sometimes, and Dean still refused to attach a gendered pronoun to his 'mystery lady.'

"Dean," Terry said patiently, "if you're getting laid, it is my business as your friend."

"It isn't," Dean countered. "And I'm not getting laid." That part, at least, was true, though not for lack of wanting on his part. He'd never been shy about making his interest known to men or women, but Sam was different. Sam hadn't shown any interest in him beside as a hunting partner, and Dean was too chickenshit to do anything that might make Sam leave. So maybe he was a coward, but he was gonna keep Sam around as long as Sam would stay.

"Collins, if you're not getting laid, then what the hell are you whistling about?"

Dean smiled, and he knew he probably looked secretive. "Nothing," he said innocently.

"Dude, you suck!" Terry said, and Dean laughed.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

Dean took two days off and went with Sam to Detroit, where there was possibly an incubus killing prostitutes.

They left mid-morning and Dean was buzzed on sunshine, coffee, and the prospect of spending two whole days with Sam. Sam was a little more subdued, but Dean figured that was the hour. It made sense Sam'd be a night owl, considering his job, and Dean had never actually seen him between the hours of 5 am and 4 pm. Sam did perk up after another cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a good dose of AC/DC. Enough to rib Dean about his taste in music anyway. They spent most of the drive in good natured argument.

Eventually Sam fell asleep against the window, sunlight behind him and sunglasses slipping down his nose. Traffic was light so Dean sang along with the radio softly and let himself take long lingering looks at Sam.

This was good, he knew. The passenger seat had become Sam's space. He had a box of ammo, packets of salt, and several fake Ids in the glove compartment. His backpack fit in the space at his feet, and there was a gray hoodie slung over the back of the seat that just never left. Dean liked having Sam in his life and in his truck. He tried not to think about Sam leaving. A few weeks, a few months, hell, Dean was beginning to think a few years might not be enough time.

He poked Sam awake when they got into the city. The motel they found was sleaze central, but it was close to the incubus' hunting grounds.

As it got closer to dark Sam grew silent and restless. Dean figured it was nerves, and Dean was feeling them too. Sam had admitted when he suggested the job that he'd never gone up against an incubus before. So Dean spent the hours before dark re-reading all of Sam's detailed research about incubi, just to be ready.

When the sun set they walked to the hunting grounds. Sam had given Dean a .38 loaded with silver bullets (tucked into the waistband of his pants and covered with his jacket) and a silver knife (hidden in his boot). They were as prepared as they were going to get.

Dean had never made a practice of picking up hookers, but he got the feeling that the hookers on this block were subdued, even scared. They approached a girl with blonde hair in a black vinyl mini-skirt and a purple halter top that didn't do much to cover, well, anything. Christ, she couldn't be more than 19, if that.

"Jenny?" Sam asked, and the girl nodded warily. "I'm Sam - Lisa's friend? This is Dean." Jenny relaxed marginally and pulled them back from the street.

"Lisa said you'd help, but I don't know-"

"It's okay," Sam said. He pulled out his cigarettes. "You want one?"

Jenny nodded gratefully. Dean noticed fresh and fading bruises on the inside of her arms and looked away quickly. When she had taken a few drags of the cigarette Sam said gently, "Why don't you tell us what's going on."

"About two months ago one of the girls, Cherry, stopped showing up. Nobody was worried at first, 'cause sometimes girls don't show up anymore, and Cherry had been saying she met someone, someone who was gonna take her away and all that. But about a week later her landlord found her, dead. And she was just in her bed, you know? Like she was asleep? And nobody could figure out how she died. And then three weeks later it was Courtney, and two weeks after that it was Maria, and the cops won't do anything because they say there's 'no evidence of foul play.' But it's really because we're just whores and they don't care about us unless we're sucking their dicks!"

She finished with an agitated flick of her cigarette and Dean noticed Sam's jaw clenching. "Anyway," Jenny continued, "Lisa said this might be your kind of thing. I don't know exactly what that is, but everyone's real freaked out."

Sam nodded. "It does sound like my kind of thing. Don't worry, we'll take care of it." Dean tried to nod reassuringly, but his stomach was rolling in growing realization.

"Is someone missing now?" he asked.

Jenny nodded. "Tara hasn't shown up the last two days."

"And do you know where Tara lives?" Sam asked.

"No," Jenny said. "But Kenny'll know."

They spent the rest of the night tracking down Tara's pimp. Sam was grim and spoke mostly in monosyllables. Dean felt sick.

When they finally did find Kenny, he wouldn't tell them anything, no surprise. That's when Sam snapped.

He shoved Kenny against a wall and pressed his forearm against Kenny's throat. "Look, you stupid, pathetic excuse for a human," Sam hissed, "Tara is in danger. So you are going to tell us where she lives, or you won't be in any condition to pimp anything, understand me?"

Dean had only seen Sam this angry once before, and for the first time, he was afraid of Sam. No, not afraid of him, afraid of what he might do. Because Kenny was an asshole, but he was a human asshole.

"Sam," he said as calmly as he could. "Come on, let him go." He settled a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam." The muscles underneath his hand tensed, then relaxed. Sam lifted his arm from Kenny's throat, but kept him pinned to the wall by his shoulders. Dean didn't move his hand. He turned his gaze to the pimp. "Tell us where she lives. Now," he said, his voice hard.

Kenny couldn't stammer out the address fast enough.

After that, killing the incubus was almost anti-climactic. They bust into Tara's rat-trap apartment at dawn, pumped the thing full of silver, and took the girl to the hospital.

It was early afternoon by the time they got back to the motel and took turns showering.

Dean was exhausted, but couldn't fall asleep. From the way Sam was tossing and turning in his bed, he was having the same problem. Dean debated with himself for a few minutes, but finally decided that if Sam didn't want to answer, he wouldn't.

"Sam," he said.

"Yeah?"

They'd drawn the curtains against the sun, so Dean could only see the outline of Sam when he turned over to face Dean. That made it easier.

"Did you ever have to … have to do that?" Just thinking about it made Dean flash between nausea, anger, and sadness, but it was Sam. He wanted to know.

Sam didn't answer for a long time, and Dean thought he wouldn't answer at all when he said, "It wasn't. I mean." He sighed and sat up, rested his arms on his upraised knees.

"I ran away from home when I was 15. I picked a lot of pockets, but it wasn't always enough. And I did a lot of hitchhiking, so I learned to suck dick pretty quickly. I made it to San Francisco and spent a couple months on my knees in back alleys in the Castro. And yeah, it sucked. It sucked a lot; it wasn't a great time in my life. But it could have been worse. I mean, I was pretty tall, even then, and no one tried to hurt me, and I didn't, like, become a junkie or anything.

"And one day I was finishing up a trick and there was another kid in the alley. He was about my age and he had this power - he could make people do whatever he wanted, just by talking to them. Except that for some reason it didn't work on me. So we hooked up, and that was the end of my rent boy days."

He ran a hand through his hair. "It's not some tragic story, and it didn't traumatize me for life. It was just a thing that I did, and then I didn't anymore. It was a long time ago."

"Yeah," Dean said, "but you shouldn't have had to at all."

Sam shrugged. "I survived."

"Yeah, but …" And Dean didn't know how to do this, how to say what he was feeling in a situation like this. Sam had shown time and time again that he could take care of himself. He'd spent his whole life doing it. He didn't need Dean to take care of him, and Dean didn't know how to say that he wanted to anyway without sounding like an idiot. "I'm glad," he said finally. "I'm glad you're okay."

It wasn't much, it wasn't enough, but Sam fell asleep soon after, and Dean wasn't far behind.

\---

August gave way to September and a brutal indian summer. Even demons and angry spirits seemed to be affected by the heat and Sam couldn't find any hunts for weeks.

Dean was afraid Sam would leave now that the supernatural activity had died down, but he didn't. He still called Dean and showed up at work every couple of days, but instead of breaking and entering or digging up graves they went to diners, or had a couple beers.

Dean tried not to think of it like dating, because he wasn't a 14 year old girl, and, if he did sometimes, he certainly didn't tell anyone.

But the thought that Sam might leave nagged at him, and he finally asked Sam about it after he had a couple beers to fortify himself.

Sam cocked his head to the side. "You want me to go?" he asked.

"No!" Dean said quickly. Too quickly. "I was just wondering," he said with forced casualness.

Sam took a sip of his beer. "I came here because of my visions," he said. "It wasn't one specific hunt, I just knew I should be here. I still feel that way, so I don't think I'll be leaving any time soon."

It didn't make much sense to Dean, but he sure as hell wasn't going to argue, so he let it drop.

\---

Dean floated to awareness and a persistent pounding in his head. What the fuck had happened? He opened his eyes and immediately slammed them shut against the bright light. He moaned in pain and wished he was still unconscious.

"Dean?"

There was pressure on his hand, so he squeezed back. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean. Jesus, you scared the shit outta me."

He risked cracking his eyes open again. It was better this time, but he decided not to try for too much. He tilted his head towards Sam's voice.

"What happened?" he asked.

"What do you remember?"

Sam's thumb stroked across the back of Dean's hand, and Dean thought, _nice_. He closed his eyes to better appreciate it.

"Dean."

Oh right. He was supposed to be remembering. He remembered lifting weights with Mike. He remembered getting a call. He remembered … that stupid kid and his fucking pipe bomb.

"I hate the internet," he groaned without opening his eyes. "What's the damage?" His whole body hurt, more now that he was actually awake.

"Broken wrist," Sam said. "A few cracked ribs, concussion. A lot of bruises. You were so fucking lucky Dean, you know that?"

Dean forced his eyes open and took a good look at Sam. He looked awful. Tired and unshaven with red eyes and even messier hair than normal. Sam wasn't looking at him, he was looking down at their hands.

"If that kid hadn't screwed up, you'd be dead by right now," he said.

"Hey," Dean said "I'm fine." He twisted his hand around so that his fingers entwined with Sam's. He could always blame it on the painkillers later.

"I didn't know what happened," Sam said. "I just had this awful feeling and you wouldn't answer your phone. I went by the station and Jake said you were here." Sam was gripping Dean's hand so hard it hurt, but Dean didn't say anything.

"I'm gonna be fine," Dean repeated. "Hey, look at me. Everything's okay." Sam looked up and Dean caught his breath at the fear in his eyes. He couldn't ever remember seeing Sam afraid.

"Dean, if something happened to you…" Dean tugged on Sam's hand and tried to smile.

"Nothing's gonna happen to me," he said in his most reassuring voice.

"It better not," Sam said. "You're the reason I'm here."

Dean snorted. "Well I better be. I hope you don't hang around the hospital for fun."

Sam leaned his elbows on the bed. His voice was low and intense. "No, I mean you're the reason I'm in this city at all." Dean didn't know how to respond, but he didn't have to because Sam kept going. "I dreamed about you, you know. Months before I met you. I think … I think you're the reason I was supposed to come here. So you're not allowed to die on me, you jerk. You're just not."

And Dean wanted to say something funny to break the tension. Something like, 'So I'm the man of your dreams, huh?' or 'I'll be sure and let all the kids with pipe bombs know.' But the words stuck in his throat at the raw emotion on Sam's face. All that came out was, "Sam."

Dean didn't know what he wanted to say, but before he could think of anything Sam surged out of his seat and his lips were on Dean's. Dean was surprised, but not too surprised to respond, matching Sam's fierceness with his own months of pent up desire.

Sam broke the kiss after a few seconds to lean his forehead against Dean's and exhale against Dean's lips. The next kiss was gentler. Dean could feel Sam holding back, mindful of Dean's injuries. Dean cursed all stupid teenagers and vowed to make the speediest recovery in the history of ever.

Sam's hand came to rest of Dean's cheek, fingers in his hair and thumb brushing his cheekbone. Dean wanted nothing more than to finally, finally touch in return, but one hand was still held fast in Sam's, and the other was covered in a cast. Sam stopped kissing him, but didn't move away. Dean felt him smile against his lips. Felt the corners of his own mouth turn up in response.

"Bad timing, huh?" Sam whispered.

"The worst," Dean agreed. Dean only opened his eyes when he felt Sam move away and settle back into the chair. Sam was looking at him with a goofy smile on his face and affection in his eyes.

"Get me out of here and we can go back to my place," Dean said.

Sam's expression turned stern. "You'll get out of here when the doctor says you're okay to leave." He tilted his head to the side. "You look like crap."

Dean tried to glare, but it was probably ruined by his own goofy smile. "Right back at ya. Bitch."

\---

While Dean had been asleep, Sam had charmed all the nurses, and nobody said a word when he stayed long past visiting hours. In fact, he refused to leave at all.

"I think I'm about as safe as I'm gonna get here," Dean said. "I don't need a babysitter."

Sam didn't look up from his book. "That has yet to be proven."

"Nothing's going to happen to me in a hospital."

"The nurses have designs on your virtue," Sam said flatly.

"Really?" Dean asked enthusiastically and smirked when Sam scowled into his book.

Sam continued to not leave, even when Jake, Mike, and Terry came to visit. Mike stared when Dean introduced them.

"You're that crazy guy from the apartment building fire," he said. Sam at least had the grace to look sheepish.

"Dean's been keeping me out of trouble since then," he said. Dean snorted at the blatant lie. Sam had been getting him into trouble since then more like. But that seemed to mollify Mike and he was all indulgent smiles while Jake reprimanded Dean gruffly for ending up in the hospital again, even though Sam kept a carefully maintained distance from Dean.

Half an hour into the visit Terry blurted out, "Wait, he's your mystery lady?" Mike whapped him upside the head and rolled his eyes. Sam looked confused. Dean grinned.

"I actually never said anything about a lady. You just assumed."

Terry turned to Mike. "You knew about this? You knew and you didn't tell me?"

"I suspected," Mike said. "Not my fault you were too dense to do the same."

"Hey!"

Dean snuck a glance at Sam and saw him smile at Mike and Terry's antics. He relaxed back into his pillows and didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until the nurse came in to check his vitals and Mike, Terry, and Jake had gone.

\---

His doctor released him the next day with a large list of things he wasn't allowed to do while he recovered.

"Are you going to have someone with you for your recovery?" he asked with a glance at Sam. Sam opened his mouth, probably to insist that he wasn't letting Dean out of his sight, then snapped it shut and looked uncertain.

"Yes," Dean said firmly, to Sam as much as the doctor. "He'll be with me the whole time." He'd been waiting for months for Sam to accept his standing invitation to say with him. If this was what it took, then so be it.

The doctor immediately began addressing Sam with his list of dos and don'ts and how to not let Dean's lung collapse as if Dean weren't there at all. Dean made a few requisite bitchy comments, but all in all he was far too satisfied with getting his way to put much heat into it.

That feeling did not extend to sitting in the passenger seat while Sam drove them back to the apartment in Dean's truck.

"Do you even have a license?" he asked, his knuckles white from gripping the armrest.

Sam grinned. "Sure. I have lots."

Dean groaned and let his head fall back against the seat. "I'm not opening my eyes until we get there," he declared. "And if you hurt my truck I will hurt you, broken wrist or no broken wrist."

Sam laughed and turned up Metallica, which was good, so Dean managed not to hyperventilate or demand to be allowed to drive. Still, he only opened his eyes when Sam turned off the truck. He turned his head and found Sam starting straight ahead, looking uncertain again.

"Dean, I don't want to intrude or anything," Sam said. "So if you'd rather have your space, I'll go."

"Dude, how many times do I have to ask you to come home with me before you get that I want you there? You're not intruding." He stopped himself before he said something ridiculous like, I don't want space, I want you.

Instead he leaned over and kissed Sam. It was awkward and clumsy because he couldn't hold himself up with his left arm, and his ribs twinged at the position, but Sam's lips were soft and responsive and Dean could anchor his good hand in Sam's hair.

"Okay, I believe you," Sam said when they broke apart.

"Are you sure? Because I wouldn't mind convincing you some more."

"Maybe later. It's time for your pills." As if in response to Sam's statement Dean's ribs gave a massive and painful twinge.

"Yeah, okay," he grunted. "I can live with that."

In all the time they'd known each other, Sam had never set foot in Dean's apartment. It wasn't much, but when Dean had moved in it had been paradise. For the first time in his life he had a space he didn't have to share. A place all his own. That didn't seem as important when the person he'd be sharing it with was Sam.

He tried not to be anxious when Sam unlocked the door. This was a guy who spent half of his nights on park benches; he wouldn't care that Dean hadn't picked up before going to work four days ago.

Sam got Dean into his bed, brought him a pill, fussed with the pillows, then stood around looking awkward.

"So," Dean said. "We're finally alone." He gave Sam his best leer.

Sam rolled his eyes and sat on the end of the bed. "The doctor said no sex until your ribs start to heal," he said. "He was very clear."

"He didn't say anything about blowjobs though," Dean pointed out hopefully.

"I think blowjobs count as sex." Sam frowned.

"Are you sure?"

Sam gave him a look so heated it made Dean shiver. "Mine do."

Dean tried to tell his dick that they'd just decided there would be no blowjobs, so please calm down, but it wasn't listening.

"How about making out? I'm pretty sure the doctor didn't say anything about making out."

"I think you're right about that," Sam said. Dean didn't have time to insist that Sam get his ass over here this instant because Sam was there and kissing Dean, his tongue demanding entrance to Dean's mouth and his hands stroking Dean's neck. Dean opened his mouth and relaxed into Sam. As a replacement for blowjobs, this was not bad at all, he decided.

Hours later he woke up to a dark room, Sam's arms around him, and Sam's breath in his hair. _Not bad at all_, he thought.

\---

A week later the doctor declared Dean's ribs were healing well and Dean and Sam had their first fight.

They'd spend the week either in bed or on the couch watching TV and eating take-out with the occasional break to go out and rent movies, take naps, or indulge in marathon make-out sessions.

Dean couldn't remember ever being so relaxed or so sexually frustrated in his life. Just the brush of Sam's hand against his stomach, or Sam's breath on his neck made him instantly hard. If it hadn't been for the fading bruises and persistent ache in his wrist he would have tackled Sam and had his way with him days ago.

It didn't help that Sam was in the same boat. Over the week his kisses had gone from gentle with a hint of hunger to downright lustful, more fucking with his mouth than kissing. It was a vicious, sexy cycle and by the time Dean went back to the doctor he was ready to say fuck his ribs, as long as he could fuck Sam.

So the last thing he expected Sam to say once they were back at the apartment was that he planned on going on a hunt that night. And he planned on going alone.

"What?" Dean asked, stunned.

"A poltergeist, I think," Sam said. "It's attached itself to a 7th grade girl. Luckily it hasn't gotten too far out of hand yet. Scared the shit out of her parents and teachers though."

"I wasn't asking what it was," Dean said through clenched teeth. "I was asking what the hell you're thinking, going without me."

"Um, that your doctor said nothing strenuous, and your wrist is in a cast, and you're in no condition to hunt?"

"But it's okay for you to go alone?"

"Yes."

"The hell it is!" Dean shouted. Sam narrowed his eyes.

There was a lot of yelling then, with Sam being a stubborn bastard and Dean barely restraining himself from throwing things.

"This isn't a big deal!" Sam said.

"If it's not a big deal then why do you have to do it now?" Dean countered.

On and on until Sam burst out, "What the fuck is your problem? I'm perfectly capable of hunting by myself! I've done it for years!"

"But now you don't have to!"

Sam gaped at him, his eyes wide and surprised. Dean opened his mouth to continue with several unflattering names, but Sam interrupted him.

"Jesus, Dean."

And Dean barely had time to register the awe in his voice before Sam kissed him so hard all thoughts that weren't _Sam_ and _naked_ and _now_ flew right out of his head.

Sam pushed him back towards the bedroom without lifting his mouth from Dean's, his hands tearing at the buttons of Dean's shirt. Dean cursed the cast on his wrist that meant he couldn't touch Sam everywhere and undress him at the same time.

By the time they reached the bed his shirt was on the floor and his pants were unbuttoned.

"Get on the bed before I throw you there," Sam growled into his mouth. Dean didn't need to be told twice. Sam made quick work of his shoes and socks, then his pants and boxers, and Dean was naked with a fully dressed Sam holding himself over him.

Sam leaned in and nipped Dean's bottom lip then leaned back and swallowed his cock in one smooth motion.

"Holy shit!" Dean gasped. His right hand slid into Sam's hair and he tried not writhe and irritate his ribs.

Between that last few months and the last week Dean didn't last long, and he couldn't bring himself to care. He hauled Sam back up to his mouth by his shirt.

"Undo your pants," he said between kisses. He didn't wait for Sam to take them off, just shoved his hand inside and jacked Sam off with quick hard strokes. Sam didn't last any longer than Dean had.

He collapsed face first into the pillow beside Dean and moaned. "Oh my God."

Dean had to agree.

Dean overcame his post-orgasmic lethargy when he got cold and tried to get the covers out from underneath him without actually sitting up or moving anymore than he had to. Sam grunted and took control of the whole operation. Within a few minutes he was sliding underneath the covers with Dean, sticky and blessedly naked.

"If it's life threatening I'm gonna go, if you can go with me or not," he mumbled into Dean's shoulder. "But if I can, I'll wait for you."

"Deal," Dean said, and fell asleep.

\---

The days grew colder as Dean healed. By the time he got his cast off it was well into November. He celebrated by tumbling Sam into bed and keeping him there for a good six hours.

He woke up from a nap a few hours later with Sam's face tucked into his neck. Sam's eyes were closed, but the movement of his hand against Dean's stomach said he was awake.

"Hey," he said and pressed a kiss to Dean's throat.

Dean brushed a thumb across the back of Sam's neck. "What's up?"

Sam sighed. He shifted so he could look Dean in the eye. "You're better now," he said. Dean smiled. He was better. That meant going back to work and doing more than paperwork. That meant going back to hunting with Sam. He couldn't wait.

"Yup."

"I can get out of your hair now that you can, you know, dress yourself and do your own shopping and stuff."

Wait. What? "What?"

"You don't need my help anymore," Sam said.

"So you think I'm gonna kick you out just because you're not playing nurse maid anymore?"

"Well, no, but-"

A horrible thought occurred to Dean. "Do you not want to live here anymore?"

"I do, it's just-"

"Then shut the fuck up and stop being an idiot. You're staying here."

Sam glared at him, but the effect was ruined by his hair sticking up on one side of his head. Dean thought it was adorable. And hilarious.

"I just … this has all been really quick, don't you think? I don't want to invade your life."

Quick? Sam thought this was quick? After all those months of Dean waiting around for Sam to call or show up, saying he wanted to learn Latin just so he had an excuse to see him, Sam thought this was quick? Okay, maybe they'd gone from first kiss to living together without much pause in between, but Dean had been ready, had been waiting a long time for Sam to make that choice. When you got right down to it, Sam had been invading his life since the first time they saw each other. Dean just preferred that Sam did his invading while within reach.

"I like you invading my life," Dean said. "And my truck. And my apartment. And my personal space."

"Dean…"

"Seriously, why are we still talking about this?"

Sam huffed and tucked his face back into Dean's neck. "Fine. Jerk."

Dean smiled and settled his arms more comfortably around Sam. "That's what I thought, bitch."

\---

Dean signed up to work Thanksgiving without thought. He always worked Thanksgiving, since he'd never had anyone to spend it with. It wasn't until a week before that he realized he did have someone to spend it with this year. Or maybe Sam had plans of his own; he hadn't mentioned anything. Dean didn't know if Sam expected to spend Thanksgiving with him, or what.

Actually, there were a lot of things Dean didn't know. Sam could be planning on going home and seeing his parents. Dean didn't know if Sam had ever gotten in touch with them after he ran away.

He'd never spent so much time thinking about Thanksgiving in his entire life, and it was irritating the hell out of him. He decided to just ask Sam.

He brought it up when they were making dinner that night. Well, Dean was making dinner, and Sam was watching. Sam, Dean had learned, was completely hopeless in the kitchen. The weeks Dean had been in a cast they'd eaten take-out and leftovers from the station house almost exclusively. Not that Dean was any kind of gourmet chef, but he had managed to feed himself for almost 10 years now.

There was bread in the oven, sauce on the stove, and pasta boiling. He couldn't put it off any longer.

"I'm working on Thanksgiving," he said casually. Sam was sitting at the counter with his nose buried in a large book.

"Okay," he said, without looking up. Well, okay then. Sam was fine, and it should have been the end of it. Except that Dean, being himself, couldn't let it go.

"Do you have plans or anything?"

Now Sam looked up. He marked his page with a stray piece of scrap paper and closed his book. "I don't, I'm not really into holidays," he said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Me neither." And _that_ should have been the end of it. But Dean was still curious. They'd been living together for almost two months and Sam's past was still mostly a mystery. And Dean hated mysteries.

"Do you - I mean, have you spoken to your parents at all since you left?"

Sam's eyes widened and Dean almost took back the question. But he wanted to know and he wasn't afraid of scaring Sam away anymore. He let it stand.

"Your garlic bread's burning," Sam said.

Dean reached over and turned the oven off without taking his eyes off of Sam. "No avoiding the question."

Sam waved his hand. "I'm not. But I'm starving. We can talk and eat at the same time."

When they were settled at the counter Dean looked at Sam expectantly. Sam sighed.

"Short answer, no."

"And the long answer?"

Sam picked up a piece of garlic bread, but didn't eat it. Despite his claims of hunger he just shredded it into little bits on his plate.

"I was adopted when I was like, two," he said at last. "The couple that adopted me, Bruce and Leslie Ashton, they were the perfect on paper type, you know? Bruce was a successful lawyer and Leslie spent her days gardening and organizing charity balls. Wealthy, nice house, safe neighborhood. Perfect. And for a while I guess it was."

"I was a good kid. One of my nannies said I was so good it was uncanny. I hardly ever cried. Until I was 5 or so. I started having nightmares. I couldn't ever remember them then, but I would scream and scream and keep myself and Bruce and Leslie up all night.

"And as it turned out, perfect on paper didn't really mean anything. Because Bruce was a workaholic, and Leslie was an alcoholic, and actually, they didn't like each other that much. And when I stopped being the perfect child they didn't like me much either."

"So what happened?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "Eventually I realized they weren't just nightmares - they came true. It wasn't exactly something I could talk to Bruce and Leslie about, so I left to try and find some answers."

"But you did right? Because that demon…"

"Sort of. Hold on, I'll be right back." Sam came back with his backpack. He took out his black book and pulled two things from the pages. "I ended up in Lawrence, Kansas because I had a dream about a family in trouble." He grimaced. "I was too late. But the house looked familiar and I realized I'd seen it in other dreams. I'm pretty sure it's where my biological family lived. This is the only thing I found there though."

He handed Dean a faded, well-worn photograph. In it a smiling blonde woman in a white nightgown held a baby in her arms. On the back it said, 'Mary and Baby Sammy.' Oh. This was Sam's mother. He looked at Sam, then the photograph again. He could see the resemblance, especially around the eyes.

"I did some research," Sam continued, "and I found this." He passed Dean a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of an obituary for Mary Winchester dated November 4, 1983. The woman in the picture was the same. Sam's mom. It wasn't a very long obituary. It only mentioned the very basics and said she died in an accidental house fire on November 2, 1983. At the very end it said only, "Mrs. Winchester is survived by her husband, John Winchester, and her two sons." Not very informative, except…

"You have a brother," Dean said.

"Yeah," Sam said, "but I don't know anything about him. He must have been older than me, but other than that, I got nothing. Records in Lawrence are really shitty. I couldn't find my own birth announcement, let alone my brother's. I don't even know his name. I have no way to search for him."

Well, Dean could relate to that. "What about your dad, John Winchester?"

Sam stuck the picture and the obit back into his book. "Born and raised in Kansas, joined the marines when he was 18, fought a few years in Vietnam, then went back to Lawrence, married my mom, and opened an auto repair shop. But it's like he just disappeared after she died. There's nothing on him after that." He stopped speaking, but Dean could tell there was something else.

"What?" he prompted.

"I think I've had dreams about him. But they're weird - really distant and fuzzy. I think… I think he's dead. For all I know, my brother died with him. I've never dreamt about him. And that's it. That's the story of my family."

And yeah, okay, that pretty much sucked. He knew more than Dean, but not much, and his trail was just as cold.

"I'm sorry," he said, even though he knew it was too little.

Sam shrugged and took a bite of his pasta. "It's not a big thing. I've been on my own for a long time."

But Dean knew it was a big thing. He'd been on his own a long time too. He knew what it was like to not have anyone, and now he was finding out what it was like to have Sam. And Sam was finding out what it was like having him. Neither of them had a real family, but maybe, just maybe, they could be that for each other.

Dean took a big bite of bread to avoid embarrassing himself and saying any of that out loud. It was the proximity of stupid holidays making him think stupid things. And it was stupid. But that didn't mean it couldn't be true.

\---

Dean bought Sam a cell phone despite his protests, and bugged him to keep it charged and on his person at all times. Sam grumbled about it until a nasty spirit locked him in a attic with a hidden trap door. Dean never would have been able to find him if Sam hadn't called him and told him exactly where he was. After that, Sam shut up and always made sure he had his phone in his pocket.

As Sam started getting more comfortable, he started acquiring a lot more stuff. He bought clothes that fit and didn't look ready to fall apart. He even had more than one pair of jeans and two t-shirts, and eventually Dean cleared out a few drawers and closet space to make room.

But mostly, Sam brought home books.

"I think we need another bookshelf," Dean said. He stood in the middle of the living room and looked at the books stacked in piles. Most were along the wall, underneath the window and around the TV, but some had started to migrate to under the coffee table and next to the couch. There were a few smaller piles in the bedroom, next to Sam's side of the bed.

Sam didn't seem to care what kind of books he brought home. The piles were a mix of demon treatises, fiction, bibles in at least three different languages, history, philosophy, and Dean was pretty sure he'd seen at least one math textbook floating around somewhere. Currently Sam was sprawled on the couch reading, was that anthropology? Dean didn't want to know.

"We do?" Sam asked.

"Unless we want the books to take over while we sleep, I think so."

Sam looked around and seemed to see the growing piles for the first time. "Oh. Sorry about that," he said.

"It's not a problem," Dean said. "I just think we need another bookshelf."

"Okay," Sam said. So they went and got one. While Sam had seemed perfectly happy to leave his books on the floor, the idea of a bookshelf made him even happier. Dean realized it was probably the first time since Sam left home that he'd had a bookshelf, and he was glad he'd thought of it. Dean wondered if Sam had as many books then as he did now. Probably. Probably he'd had more. He seemed the type to have been a bookworm in high school.

It struck Dean again as they were putting the books away, how advanced they were for someone who had lived on the street since he was 15.

"Have you ever thought about going to college?" Dean asked.

"What?" Sam paused with his hand on a Latin version of the Iliad.

"You're really smart," Dean said. "Now that you're staying in one place for a while, you should go."

Sam rolled his eyes and went back to shelving books. "Dean, I never even finished high school."

"So? Get your GED. You taught yourself Latin, it wouldn't be that hard. Look at these books, it's not like you couldn't keep up. Plus, you love all that geeky research."

A paperback mystery thwapped Dean on the back of the head even though both of Sam's hands were occupied.

"Hey! No using powers for evil purposes!"

"I'll think about it," Sam said.

"Well good," Dean said. "But don't think that will distract me my ultimate revenge."

Sam tried to look put-upon, but he was grinning. "I wouldn't dream of it."

\---

Dean came home one morning in January to find Sam in the living room, books and papers spread around him, glaring at the computer screen.

"Problems?" Dean asked Sam didn't look up at the sound of the door shutting.

"I don't know what it is!" Sam growled. Dean knew exactly what he was talking about. Five mysterious murders since Christmas. EMF and sulfur residue pointed to something supernatural, but they'd had no luck in figuring out what. With no visions to help them along, they were at a dead end with nothing to do but wait until the next murder and Sam didn't like it. Hell, Dean didn't like it either, but Sam took these things personally.

Sam leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "You remember Hector?"

"The guy with the knives?"

"Yeah, him. He told me about this bar in Wisconsin. It's kind of like a way station for hunters, and the woman who owns it can find information on just about anything. And I've exhausted just about everything I can do, so …"

Dean thought about his schedule. "I have 3 days coming up," he said. "We can go then."

Sam sighed. "Okay." But his mind was still working, turning over the evidence, looking for connections. Dean settled himself astride Sam's lap and kissed him deeply.

"We'll go to the bar," he said against Sam's lips. "We'll figure this out. So stop worrying about it."

"I can't, Dean -"

Dean shifted and ground his hips into Sam's and whatever Sam was saying cut off in a gasp.

"You can," Dean said and did it again. "I'm going to make sure of it."

But sex, no matter how good, wasn't going to stop the thing from killing again, so they left as soon as they could, even though that meant leaving at 1am after Dean's shift. Even though that meant Sam driving Dean's truck while Dean slept. He didn't like it, but he figured if Sam hadn't killed them yet it was okay.

Dean woke at dawn with his head pillowed on Sam's thigh and Sam's fingers running through the short hairs on the back of his neck. He curled his hand around Sam's knee and let the motion of the truck and Sam's gentle stroking lull him back into a doze until they stopped for gas and coffee and Dean took over driving.

They turned off the interstate mid-morning and 15 minutes later pulled up to a run down building with a dingy sign proclaiming it Harvelle's Roadhouse.

"You sure this is the place?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at the directions scrawled in his book and back up at the building. "Harvelle's. This is it. Doesn't look like it's open though."

"We can check it out," Dean said. "If no one's there we'll find a motel, come back tonight."

Sam nodded and got out of the truck. Dean's hand hesitated over the door handle and only then did he realize how reluctant he was to walk into the building. He wished they could take his suggestion and find a motel, sleep for the day and come back at night. But they needed the information as soon as possible - they were lucky there hadn't been another murder already. Dean just had a really bad feeling about this whole thing.

Sam was waiting a few feet from the truck giving him a puzzled look. Dean reached under his seat and pulled out his new .38. Better safe than sorry anyway. He got out of the truck and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. He grabbed the edges of Sam's jacket and pulled him in for a swift hard kiss. Then he walked to the door, leaving Sam looking confused and hurrying to catch up.

Dean hoped the door would be locked and he could say oh sorry, they tried, come back later. But the door swung open at his touch and he had no choice but to step into the dim light of the bar.

He could feel Sam at his back and a little to the right, which calmed his nerves somewhat. He was still jumpy as hell, so when something moved on the pool table in the corner, Dean nearly shot it. Then it let out a loud snore and Dean let out a breath. It was just some guy sleeping. Sam laughed softly behind him and Dean shot him a grin. Really, there was no logical reason to be so edgy. This was supposed to be a safe place.

"We're closed," a harsh female voice barked from behind the bar. Dean jumped and his hand went to his gun again. Sam stilled him with a hand on his elbow.

"Ellen Harvelle?" Sam asked.

"Who wants to know?" the woman asked.

"I'm Sam, this is Dean, we were -"

"Sam and Dean?" Ellen cocked her head to the side. "John Winchester's boys?"

Dean froze. Beside him he heard Sam inhale sharply.

"No," Dean said, but it sounded uncertain. "He is, but I'm…"

Ellen looked confused. "You sure?"

And Dean wanted to say, yes very sure, but the words wouldn't come out. Because suddenly he wasn't very sure at all. Because suddenly it all made a very scary kind of sense. That neither of them knew their real parents, and Sam had an older brother, and when Sam was two, Dean would have been six, and both of their records were incomplete.

"Oh my God," Sam whispered. Dean couldn't look at him.

"My name is Dean Collins," he said firmly, hoping to clear this whole thing up right away. His name was Collins, not Winchester. Sam was not … he couldn't even think it.

But Ellen nodded and looked satisfied. "Yeah," she said. "I'm pretty sure that was the name John was using when they took you two." Dean didn't know what they looked like, but it must have been bad because Ellen's voice gentled. "Sit down, have a beer. I'll get John's things."

Dean sat gratefully at the bar and gulped the beer Ellen handed him.

"You have his things?" Sam asked faintly.

"Well sure," Ellen said. "Isn't that why you boys came?" Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw the movement of Sam shaking his head. He held out the folder with the case research in it. Ellen leafed through it and yelled, "Ash!"

The body on the pool table sat straight up. "What?" the man mumbled. Dean barely registered the crazy mullet and torn clothes. His mind just kept hearing Ellen on repeat: _John Winchester's boys … that was the name John was using…_

"See what you can find out about this," Ellen told Ash.

"Sure thing, boss," Ash said and walked through the back door mumbling to himself, his nose buried in the folder.

Ellen set another beer down beside Dean's nearly empty one. "You boys sit tight, I'll be right back."

And she left them alone. Dean drank his beer and concentrated on not flying apart. The slightest lapse in concentration and he might disintegrate.

"Dean," Sam said after a few minutes.

"Don't," Dean said. His voice sounded like he'd been screaming, but that hadn't been out loud. "Just don't. We'll find out for sure if it's true, and then we'll deal with it. Until then…"

Sam didn't answer. His face would maybe tell Dean what he was thinking, but Dean didn't look.

According to Dean's watch it was only a few more minutes until Ellen came back carrying a metal box. It felt like forever.

Before she opened it Sam spoke up, "How did you know our -" he swallowed, "How did you know John?"

"Most hunters come through here eventually. John became a good friend, almost like family."

"He was a hunter?" Sam asked.

"Well sure," Ellen shrugged. "After what happened to Mary -" Sam must have looked confused because Ellen asked, "You do know what happened to your mother, right?"

"She died in a fire," Sam said.

Ellen shook her head. "Oh there was a fire, sure, but Mary Winchester was killed by a demon. Happened right in your nursery, Sam. And John made it his mission to kill that demon and anything that got in the way. How the hell did you get into hunting if you didn't know about your mom?"

Dean couldn't believe they were sitting there chatting when the evidence of whether or not he'd been fucking his … it was sitting right there. Dean interrupted before Sam could tell this woman his life story. "Can I?" he asked, reaching for the box.

"Oh sure," Ellen said, and pushed it across the bar.

Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him as he flipped the latch and opened the lid. A bunch of pictures sat on top and as soon as Dean pulled them out he knew Ellen was right. He was maybe four in the picture, but he recognized his younger self. He sat with a dark haired man who held a baby. He flipped it over and read 'John and the boys.' The next picture showed his four year old self holding a baby. Holding Sam. He didn't need to look at the back to know who it was. He shoved the stack over to Sam.

A quick look through the rest of the box and Dean found a birth certificate for Dean Winchester, January 1979, Sam's birth certificate, his missing CPS records, Sam's adoption records, newspaper clippings, and a brown leather journal.

Dean's throat tightened and his stomach rolled. "Excuse me," he said as calmly as he could and force himself not to run to the bathroom. Once he'd shut the door and locked it behind him he dropped to his knees and retched into the toilet. He hadn't eaten anything since last night and all that came up was coffee and beer, then just bile, then nothing at all, and Dean knelt there dry heaving for a long time.

When it finally stopped he flushed and rested his head on the cool porcelain. Then he stood up and prepared to face Ellen and Sam again. A quick look in the mirror showed that his face was shiny with cooling sweat and his eyes were red. He splashed his face with water a few times, and when that didn't help he stuck his whole head under the cold tap.

"Sit down," Ellen offered again when he got back to the bar. "I was just about to tell Sam how you got separated." Sam had taken everything from the box and laid it out on the bar. He was leafing through the brown leather journal, his hair obscuring his face. Dean sat and pushed the beer away from him. The smell made him sick.

"I didn't meet John until a couple months after it happened, and I had the story from him," Ellen said, settling her elbows on the bar. "After Mary died and John learned what was really out there he left Lawrence with you two. He didn't know then what had killed her, but he was determined to find out. So he started hunting, and dragging you along with him. He knew it wasn't the safest way to raise two boys, but he was more scared of letting you out of his sight in case whatever killed Mary wasn't done with his family. It went like that for a couple years - John hunting and pulling credit card scams with his boys along for the ride. A motel clerk called Child Protective Services on him in Nebraska. He went out to meet with a contact and when he got back, you were gone."

"And he just let us go?" Dean asked, and he didn't care if he sounded bitter.

"Oh hell no," Ellen said. "He was ready to go in, guns blazing and get you boys back."

"So why didn't he?"

"He got a lead on the demon. And John figured it was about to get a lot more dangerous, and maybe with you both under different names and not connected to him, you'd be safer. He kept an eye on you, of course, and he had a whole lot of contacts who did the same. And he always planned on getting you back, once he killed the demon."

"What happened?" Sam asked.

Ellen shrugged. "He stopped by here one day, dropped this stuff off and went to confront the demon. I never saw him again, but we all knew that demon was dead."

"He killed it," Sam said. His voice was distant and Dean knew that if he looked over he'd see that his eyes were glazed. He was _seeing it_. "In Stull Cemetery. He killed it for good, but the demon wounded him. He barely lived longer than it did."

Dean had to stop himself from putting his arms around Sam, from holding him and rubbing his temples like he'd done after so many visions in the previous months. How did a brother help a brother through a vision? Dean didn't know.

What did know was that he didn't like the way Ellen was looking at Sam, kind of confused with an edge of fear. He was pretty sure an older brother would feel the same.

"So John was like family," he drawled, "but after he died you just left his kids to rot in foster homes?"

"Hey," Ellen said, refocusing on Dean, "nobody knew what happened to him, and he didn't leave any instructions for anyone. I didn't even know where you were. Now I'm sure you have plenty to be angry about, but you don't get to be angry at me."

_Lady, you have no fucking idea_, Dean thought bleakly.

"Dean," Sam said. He sounded better. "Sorry," he said to Ellen. "It's just that he looked for his family for a long time and he never found anything."

Ellen nodded. "Well that was John's fault for sure. He was a paranoid son of a bitch, and he didn't want any kind of paper trail in case of the demon, or trouble when he took you back." She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. "I can't believe you two met up, just by coincidence. That was pretty damn lucky."

"No it wasn't," Sam whispered, but Dean couldn't tell if Ellen heard.

\---

Ellen gave them directions to a motel and instructions to come back if they needed anything or if they had any questions. Dean had a lot of questions, but he didn't think Ellen could answer _how did this happen_ or _what the fuck do we do now_.

He walked into the room Sam had gotten for them and stopped short at the sight of the two queen beds.

"I thought that uh…" Sam said uncertainly.

"No, yeah, it's …"

_Of course we have to get two beds_, Dean thought savagely, since two grown brothers didn't generally sleep in the same bed, or cuddle, or _have sex with each other_. Jesus.

He dropped his bag onto one of the beds and sat down, wondering what they were supposed to do. The thought of food still made him sick, so that was out. He could take a shower. He could turn on the TV. But he didn't do any of those things. He just sat. Sam wandered around the room, salting the doors and windows, making it safe. After a complete circuit he sat on the bed opposite Dean and leaned his elbows on his knees.

"Did you tell Ellen about the whole psychic thing?" Dean asked before Sam could speak.

"No."

"Good," Dean nodded. "I think you should keep it that way. I didn't like the way she looked at you when …"

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam said.

"It's not your fault, Sam," Dean said automatically. Just like every other time Sam blamed himself for something he couldn't control.

"No, but. Dean, will you please look at me!"

Startled, Dean looked at Sam without thinking, and immediately wished he hadn't. Sam looked wrecked. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands were shaking. There were lines on his forehead and around his eyes that he only got when he was upset. Dean had never been able to see Sam upset without wanting to make it better. But there was nothing that was going to make this better. Dean wanted to look away, but Sam held his gaze.

"I should have known," Sam said. " I should have at least suspected. I dreamed about you and it never even occurred to me." The lamp on the nightstand began to rattle. They broke their gaze to look at it, but it was another minute before it stopped. In all the time he'd known Sam, Dean had never seen him lose control like that. He heard Sam take several deep breaths before speaking again. "I didn't want to think that might be it, because I've wanted you since the first time I saw you. And when I dreamed about you … it felt like you were mine."

"I was," Dean said before he could stop himself. He didn't think it was possible to feel more broken, but oh, it was.

"Yeah, just not the way I thought," Sam said bitterly.

"Can we, can we just got to sleep now?" Dean asked, even though it was still early. "Can we deal with this in the morning?" He didn't know how it could be better in the morning, he just knew that it couldn't possibly be worse than right now.

"Okay," Sam said.

Dean took off his boots and crawled underneath the covers fully clothed. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Sam pulling the curtains and shutting off the lights and getting into bed. Every so often something in the room rattled violently or fell over, so Dean knew Sam wasn't sleeping either.

Dean didn't think he'd get any rest that night, but eventually he fell asleep. When he woke up it was morning, and Sam was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean didn't remember driving back to Chicago, but he found himself back in their - in his apartment, so he called in sick for his next two shifts and crawled into bed between sheets that still smelled like Sam.

He must have lost more time over the next few days because the next thing he remembered was waking up and Mike was standing over him.

"What's going on?" Dean mumbled, slitting his eyes against the sunlight coming through the window. He'd forgotten to close the curtains. Sam usually did that.

"You tell me, man," Mike said. "I was worried. You never call in sick." He looked at Dean intently. "You look like crap."

Dean struggled against the tangled sheets and sat up. "How'd you get in?" he asked.

"You gave me a key three years ago," Mike said. Right. "Where's Sam?" Dean tried not to flinch, but didn't think he quite succeeded. Mike noticed.

"Sam's gone," Dean said. It was the first time he'd said it out loud. He swallowed.

"Are you serious?" Mike sat on the corner of the bed. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

Dean shook his head. "No, we just found out …" that we're actually brothers, surprise! "Something about my family, and he left."

Mike looked confused. No kidding. "But you guys were really tight. Why would he just leave over something like that?"

"It wasn't like that," Dean said. "I would have told him to go, if he hadn't." Which wasn't true. Dean hadn't even begun to think that far ahead when Sam left. He still didn't know what he would have done. What he was going to do.

"Geez," Mike said. "That bad, huh?"

"Kinda," Dean said.

"Your shift starts in two hours," Mike said after a long pause. "You want me to tell Jake you're not coming in?"

"No. I'm coming in." After all, he couldn't stay in bed for the rest of eternity. Working would be good for him. He'd had a life before Sam. Before… He just had to get back to that. "I just gotta take a shower."

"Yeah dude," Mike laughed. "You stink."

The next day after his shift, Dean bought new sheets and threw the old ones away. He gathered up Sam's clothes and when he couldn't bring himself to throw them away with the sheets, he put them in a box and shoved it into a corner in his closet. Maybe later he'd be able to deal with them. That would be the next step. _Simple steps to an incest-free life_, he thought hysterically, and then spent 15 minutes dry heaving over the sink.

He looked at Sam's books on their shelf in the living room and left them where they were.

Then he called Jake and asked for extra shifts.

\---

Dean dreamed he was six years old and sitting in the bedroom of a foster home he didn't remember. His foster mother, a kind looking woman with streaks of gray in her brown hair was making his bed with Spiderman sheets.

"My daddy's going to come get me," he said.

"I hope he does, Dean," she said. She sounded tired.

"Where's Sammy?" he asked. "I'm supposed to take care of Sammy."

She looked at him sadly.

Dean dreamed he was seven and standing on a porch that was sagging in the middle. His foster father was overweight and smelled like beer and grease. His white shirt was stained.

"My dad's gonna come get me!" he yelled. "And then you'll be sorry!"

"Wise up kid," his foster father said, "your dad left you to rot. Can't say I blame him, either."

Dean dreamed he was sitting in the dark, keeping watch over the other kids, in case the bad things came. _When Daddy comes_, he thought, _he can help me_. But deep down, he was beginning to wonder.

Dean woke up.

"Fuck you, John," he whispered into the dark.

\---

Dean woke up. He took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast, and went to work. Just like he did every day. He was surprised by a touch of warmth in the air and realized it was March. He couldn't remember much of February, but he figured that was okay. Nothing important had happened.

That night at the station he helped Terry make dinner.

"How are you doing?" Terry asked without looking up from the potatoes he was chopping.

"Fine," Dean said. Terry stopped chopping.

"Dean," he said, "that's not true. You know it, and everyone else knows it. You haven't been fine since Sam left, and if you want to talk about it, you should just know that any one of us would be happy to listen, including me."

Dean stared at Terry. "Dude, you're being sensitive and understanding. Stop it, you're freaking me out," he tried to joke.

"I'm freaking you out? Try the other way around. You're like a fucking zombie, Dean, you're not even here most of the time. We're worried about you! I know you loved Sam, but you've got to start living again sometime."

For the first time since Wisconsin, Dean had the urge to tell Terry everything, the whole sordid story, about John, and the ghosts, and Sam being his brother, all of it, just so he would understand that this wasn't something that Dean could just get over. But he bit it back.

"I'm working on it," he said instead, and he must have sounded sincere because Terry nodded, turned back to his potatoes, and didn't bring it up again.

\---

Dean tried harder after that. It left him exhausted at the end of the day, but the worried looks decreased. He knew he probably wasn't fooling Jake, since he was still working as many extra hours as he could, but there was nothing to be done about that. It was better than being at his empty apartment with Sam's clothes in the closet and Sam's books o the shelves. Sometimes he came home from work and expected them all to be gone without a trace, just like Sam. Every time they were still there he couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved.

His cell phone woke him one afternoon in mid March. He didn't recognize the number on the display and his heart thudded hard in his chest. For a brief second he considered letting it go to voicemail, but in the end it wasn't even a question.

"Hello?" he said, trying to stay calm.

"Dean Winchester?" a gruff voice asked. Suspicion immediately overwhelmed any relief or disappointment he might have felt. Only two other people in the world knew him by that name.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"My name is Bobby Singer," the man answered. "I was a friend of John's. Ellen Harvelle gave me your number. I've got something of your Daddy's. I've been saving it in case we found you." Dean opened his mouth to tell this Bobby person to fuck off, he didn't want anything of John Winchester's, but before he could Bobby said, "Your daddy wanted you to have it."

The subtle emphasis on _you_ stopped the words in Dean's throat. "I don't know, I'll think about it," he found himself telling Bobby. Bobby took it in stride, just gave Dean and address in South Dakota and told Dean to come by any time.

Dean thought about it for a few days. He didn't have anything of John's, not really. He'd kept his records that John had saved, but the pictures and the journal Sam had taken, and Dean was okay with that. John was more Sam's dad anyway, or so Dean had thought. But now he couldn't stop thinking about this that John had apparently left for him. Just him. As much as he wanted to tell the memory of John Winchester to fuck right off, he couldn't.

He decided to go see what Bobby had for him, if only so he could stop wondering what it was.

Jake was happy to give him the time off, even with Dean's extremely vague explanation. He urged Dean to take a break and get some rest, and Dean didn't bother to tell him how unlikely that was.

It was a 15 hour drive to Bobby's place in South Dakota. Dean had barely touched any of his weapons since Wisconsin, but before he left he put his .38 in the glove compartment and was surprised at how much better he felt afterwards. He did the drive in two days and pulled into Singer Auto in the early afternoon. He drove through piles of wrecked cars and parts before he reached a building. A man with graying hair and a trucker hat walked out to meet him.

"Dean?" he asked.

"That's me," Dean said cautiously.

The man, who must have been Bobby, broke into a smile and took Dean's hand in a strong grip. "Damn, you grew up good looking, boy. It's good to see you again!"

Dean was surprised by the warmth of the greeting, but he returned the handshake and smiled despite himself. "It's good to meet you," he said, and actually meant it.

"You really do look like your mother," Bobby continued, "even more now than when you were a kid. I never had the honor of knowing Mary, but she was a wonderful woman by all accounts. John loved her something fierce."

Dean blinked. He'd been so focused on John the last couple months, he'd barely remembered his mother, blonde, beautiful, and smiling in the pictures. Hearing Bobby say he looked like her warmed something inside of him.

"Well I suppose you want to see what your Daddy left for you," Bobby said. "Follow me."

Bobby led him around more junked cars and rusted parts, further into the yard and into a small garage.

"Here we go," he said once he'd turned on a light. He pulled off a cover to reveal the most amazing car Dean had ever seen. It was a black Chevy Impala.

"'67?" he asked. Bobby nodded and looked pleased.

"John dropped it off right before he went to confront that demon. Said if anything happened to him, he wanted you to have it."

Dean reached out and ran his fingers across the side. It was dirty, but in his mind he could already see what it would look like when it was washed and polished and gleaming in the sun.

"Now, it needs a lot of work," Bobby cautioned him, "but put some time into it, and she run like new."

"I've never worked on a car like this," Dean admitted.

"I can help you start out," Bobby assured him, "and if you ever have any questions, you can call."

Dean nodded, his eyes still on the car. "Okay."

\---

Dean stayed with Bobby for five days. When it was light out he worked on the car, slowly, carefully learned his way around the engine with Bobby's guidance. It was going to be a big job. Weeks, maybe months, but Dean didn't mind.

The nights he spent sitting up with Bobby and Bobby's dogs listening to Bobby tell stories about cars he'd worked on, demons he'd exorcised, and hunters he'd known. For a guy who looked like nothing more than a redneck, Bobby had a hell of a lot of books, mostly in Latin and having to do with demons and the trapping and exorcising thereof.

Dean's Latin was rusty, but he spent a lot of time flipping through the books, noting things that might be useful. _Sam_, he thought, _would kill to get a look at just a fraction of these_. It was the first time he'd thought of Sam in months without pain tightening his chest.

When it was time to go back to work, Bobby gave him a rough hug, arranged to have the Impala towed to Mike's house free of charge, and told Dean to call him if he ever needed anything.

"Your Daddy would be real proud of you," he said, and Dean didn't even feel like punching him in the face.

Three days later he stood with Mike in his driveway waiting for the tow truck.

"Are you sure you don't mind giving up half your garage?" Dean asked.

"It's fine," Mike said. "I just still don't understand what possessed you to buy a car."

"I didn't buy it," Dean told him, smiling when he saw the truck turn onto the street. "It was my Dad's." He ignored the incredulous look Mike gave him.

"Oh wow," Mike said when he finally saw it.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Keep your grubby hands off her."

\---

Dean scaled back his hours at work, choosing instead to spend his time in Mike's garage with the car. Slowly but surely, and with only a few calls to Bobby, it became a car again instead of just a beautiful pile of junk.

After three weeks of careful work, he turned the key in the ignition and listened to the engine turn over and settle into a deep purr. He laid his head back against the soft leather seat and laughed in delight.

\---

He didn't go looking for the hunt, but he found it anyway, mostly by accident.

He was in the office helping Jake out with insurance paperwork, and Jake was talking about a series of arsons in another part of the city. At first Dean wasn't paying attention, concentrating instead on not punching the computer screen or beating Jake over the head with the keyboard for always choosing _him_ to deal with this shit.

Dean wasn't sure what exactly caught his attention. Maybe it was the frustrated way Jake said, "and no evidence of anything." Maybe it was when he said, "it just doesn't make any sense." By the time Jake mentioned the message written on the walls, Dean was all ears.

"What did it say exactly?" Dean asked sharply.

"Cry for Rose Murbine," Jake said. "That mean something to you?"

Dean shook his head. "Where did you say the last one was?"

Dean didn't even take the time to change when he got home. He pulled out the box with his hunting gear from under his bed. He was reaching for the EMF meter when he stopped cold.

Everything in the box had a thin layer of dust over it. He hadn't been on a hunt in 5 months. He suddenly thought of the hunt that had sent him and Sam to Ellen Harvelle's in the first place. What with everything that had happened, he had forgotten all about it. He sat down on the floor, hard. Five people brutally murdered and he had _forgotten about it_.

He thought back to those fuzzy days and weeks after Sam had left and he'd returned from Wisconsin. He didn't think there'd been another murder. God, he hoped. He resolved to do the research and make sure, right after he was done with this case. He was pretty sure the fires were supernatural in origin, but there were ways to make sure. He grabbed the EMF meter out of the box along with a shotgun, a flashlight, and a box of rock salt rounds.

He took his truck to the site of the last fire. It was weird, driving to a hunt without Sam in the passenger seat, talking about the possibilities, but Dean ignored it. Instead he went through everything he knew that could start fires. He was out of practice. There were gaps in his memory where he knew 6 months ago he would have known the answer.

The building still had crime scene tape around it, but Dean ignored it. He'd helped on enough arson investigations to know how to walk through without tampering with the evidence. Not that there was evidence for investigators to find, if Dean was right. Physical evidence anyway.

Dean flipped on the EMF meter and it lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. Definitely supernatural then, he just had to figure out what. Between the EMF and the equipment left around, it was easy to find where the words were.

Cry for Rose Murbine.

Dean played his flashlight over the words. Shit. They weren't written on the wall, they were _burned into it_. He leaned close and took a deep breath. No sulfur smell, so probably not a demon. The existence of a message probably ruled out an elemental or something like it. That left a spirit or a magic user. Or a pyrokinetic, but they were rare, so that was unlikely.

He spent another half hour looking around, but found nothing that would help him narrow it down. That meant it was research time.

Four hours later, the sun was rising and Dean was exhausted and cursing the internet, and the supernatural, and Sam who always made research look easy. There was nothing. As far as Dean could find, Rose Murbine didn't exist, had never existed, let alone had a reason for people to cry for her.

He went to bed missing Sam so acutely his dreams were muddy and confused, filled with Sam and he woke up exhausted.

He thought about calling Bobby for help, but he wanted to hold off. If he was going to do this on his own, he was going to have to learn to figure this shit out for himself. He took a break from the case and instead he looked up whether there had been any other murders back in January. There hadn't been. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. That meant either Sam or another hunter had taken care of it. His relief lasted only a minute before he thought of Sam facing down an unknown and dangerous entity _all alone_ and his breath hitched and his heart started beating triple time.

Jesus. What if it had been Sam? What if he'd been hurt? What if …

His phone was in his hand without even thinking about it his fingers hovering over the keys. He stopped himself at the last second. If Sam wanted to disappear, he wouldn't keep the cell phone that Dean gave him. There were other ways to find him, to make sure he was okay. And when he was finished with this case, he'd use them, he promised himself. Because no matter what had happened, no matter how Dean … Sam was still the only family he had.

He went to the gym to work out the adrenaline and when he got back he was ready to get back on the case with renewed enthusiasm. He decided to ignore Rose Murbine completely, since she wasn't getting him anywhere. Instead he had the idea to look into the buildings themselves.

A few hours later he sat back, triumphant. The buildings were owned by the same company - Roanne Industries. A company head by two men, Brent Cochrane and James Roan, who, 15 years ago, had been questioned in connection with the disappearance of an 18 year old girl named Katherine Rodriguez. They had never been arrested due to lack of evidence, and Katherine had never been found. Dean also knew that they owned more buildings, and he had an idea of which one was going to be next.

The problem was that he had no way to waste the spirit, if it was the spirit of Katherine Rodriguez, since her body had never been found. He put in a call to Cochrane and Roan, but didn't expect a call back, or for them to tell him where they hid the body, even if they did. The only thing he could think to do was make sure everyone in the building got out safely.

The first two building hit had been unoccupied when they burned.. The third hadn't been. Three people died. If the spirit kept to its pattern, more people would die this time.

Dean wasn't going to let that happen.

\---

_And everything was going so well_, Dean thought as he tumbled down a flight of stairs.

A fake bomb threat had evacuated the building, but Dean had to make sure there was no one left. That might have been a bad idea, because now Dean was the only person left for Katherine Rodriguez to vent her rage on.

Dean scrambled back into a sitting position and reached for his shotgun. His hand closed over empty air. He looked up and saw it at the top of the stairs he'd just fallen down. And Katherine was between him and it.

"Oh this is not good," he whispered. He pulled his silver tipped knife from his boot, not that it would do him much good.

Katherine floated and flickered down the stairs one at a time, and fire flared up behind her. Her mouth moved soundlessly. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she touched her hand to the wall and words spread out from her fingertips. Cry for Rose Murbine.

_Goddammit, what does that mean?_ Dean thought, then figured he wouldn't have much time left to wonder, because he was about to get killed by this stupid spirit. He brandished his knife in a last ditch effort to defend himself. Katherine cocked her head at it and kept advancing. Shit.

"Sorry Sam," Dean whispered as Katherine reached for him.

A shotgun blast made him jerk and Katherine disappeared. _Déjà vu_, Dean thought. He blinked, surprised at the prospect of not being dead.

"Come on," Sam said, grabbing the collar of Dean's shirt and pulling him up. "The fire's spreading. We gotta get out of here."

Dean didn't need to be told twice. He followed Sam out of the building and they didn't stop until they were blocks away from the building and the fire trucks full of people who might recognize Dean.

Sam slowed to a stop and Dean opened his mouth to say, something, probably, but Sam rounded on him

"What the hell were you thinking, Dean?" he yelled. "Were you trying to get yourself killed or are you just stupid? Going up against a vengeful spirit by yourself, without any idea of how to kill it? You know better than that!"

Sam kept shouting, but Dean tuned him out and took a good long look. Sam looked skinnier, more like he had when they first met, and Dean wondered where he'd been living, if he'd been sleeping on park benches again. He looked tired too, with dark circles under his eyes, and Dean wondered if his visions were becoming a problem again. He looked like hell. Dean had never been happier to see anyone in his life.

"I can't fucking believe you!" Sam was still yelling.

"Sam," Dean interjected when Sam paused to take a breath. "Thanks." He smiled. "It's damn good to see you."

Sam deflated. "You're such an asshole," he said. "You could have died. I almost didn't make it in time."

"But you did," Dean pointed out. He couldn't seem to stop smiling. Maybe it was the very close brush with death, but maybe it was just Sam, glaring and alive and okay and here.

"You didn't know I was going to show up. You shouldn't have been there in the first place. What happened to not hunting alone?"

Dean pressed his lips together in irritation. "Lives were at stake," Dean said. "Don't tell me you haven't done any hunts by yourself in the past five months, I won't believe you."

Sam clenched his jaw. "I never did anything as stupid as that," he said flatly. God, Dean had forgotten that Sam could get like this. He hadn't meant to confront the spirit, and it wasn't like Sam had been around for Dean to turn to.

"What was I supposed to do, Sam? Let people die? You left, so don't give me shit about hunting on my own when you made it clear that you don't want to be doing it with me."

Sam's face closed down, blank. "Let's just get rid of this thing, and then we can talk, okay?"

"Fine," Dean said shortly. "You know how?"

"Of course," Sam said, turning and walking down the street.

"Of course," Dean muttered. He hurried to catch up to Sam. _Just like old times._

\---

Turns out Brent and Jim had burned Katherine's body, which explained the fires, but they'd kept her necklace, and according to Sam's vision, Brent kept it in his safe, in his office, on the 38th floor of his office building. Dean couldn't believe he'd actually missed breaking and entering, but sneaking past security with Sam, avoiding the cameras, he felt more alive than he had in months.

In Brent's office Dean kept watch while Sam looked at the safe and his eyes glazed over. After about 10 minutes, Dean started hearing clicks from inside. He didn't know Sam had that kind of control. A few minutes later the safe opened and Sam pulled out a gold cross on a delicate chain. He handed it to Dean.

"I know somewhere we can burn it," he said. Dean ran the chain through his fingers.

"This is the only evidence that they killed her," he said. "I hate that they're just going to get away with it."

"They won't," Sam said. He reached into the safe again and pulled out an unmarked video tape. "Because this is going to mysteriously end up in the hands of the police."

"They seriously video taped it?" Dean asked. "Dumbasses."

Sam shrugged. "Let's get this over with."

\---

"There's still one thing I don't get," Dean said as they watched the necklace melt. "Who the fuck is Rose Murbine?"

"No one," Sam said, hands in his pockets. "It was an anagram."

Dean felt like slapping himself. An anagram. Of course. Damn, he really was out of practice.

Now that the hunt was over and the adrenaline was wearing off, awkwardness settled over them. It had felt so right hunting with Sam again, and now he remembered that Sam wasn't just Sam anymore. He was his little brother.

He shot a glace at Sam from the corner of his eye. But Sam's hair was hanging over his eyes and Dean couldn't read his expression.

"Now we talk," Sam said, his voice hard. Dean bristled at his tone. _Just who's the older brother here anyway?_ he thought, and fought the urge to giggle.

Instead, he just said, "Fine," and led the way back to his truck.

If he let himself forget, it was like the past five months had never happened. Just him and Sam driving home from a hunt, nothing out of the ordinary. Except for Sam's tense silence, and Dean's complete inability to be comfortable. He turned the stereo up.

He drove home because he couldn't think of any other place to go.

Sam followed him into the apartment like he was a guest, and it stung. Even after all this time Dean still slipped sometimes and thought of it as their home. But maybe that wasn't a problem for Sam.

Sam had been the one eager to talk, but he didn't say anything as he walked into the apartment. He drifted into the living room and over to the bookshelf.

"You kept them?" he asked. He ran his hand over the spines of the books. Dean shifted uncomfortably.

"I didn't know what else to do with them," he offered lamely.

Sam looked up and smiled at him. It was brief, small, and it didn't reach his eyes, but it was a smile and some equally small part inside of Dean loosened.

"You want something to eat?" he asked, because Sam looked like he could use a good meal or seven. Sam shook his head.

"Dean, I didn't leave because I didn't want to be around you."

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Something to drink?"

"Dean."

"Sam," Dean parroted. He knew he was being kind of an asshole, but goddamn, he'd spent the past half year trying not to even think about this shit.

Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. It was such a familiar gesture, such a Sam thing. Dean held back his own sigh, took off his jacket, and sat on the couch. Sam took it for the invitation it was and sat down on the opposite end.

"My powers were kind of out of control for a while," Sam said. Dean must have looked surprised because Sam nodded. "Yeah. It got really bad. Trashing motel rooms in my sleep, visions leaving me unconscious, things falling off shelves as I walked by. It … wasn't good."

"What did you do?"

"I went back to Lawrence."

"What?"

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "But there's a psychic, her name's Missouri Mosely. She lives there. She contacted me, actually. Apparently I was disturbing the psychic plane with my lack of control or something. I stayed with her for a while and she helped me get it all under control. Real control, this time." Sam paused. "She knew our - She knew John. She told me some stuff about him. She was the one who told him the truth about the supernatural." Dean nodded. Bobby had told him things too. Things he should probably tell Sam eventually.

"What did you do after that?"

"I wandered around for a little while. Then I came back to Chicago."

Dean froze. "You came back here? How long?"

"A couple months."

A couple months. Sam had been in the same city for a couple of months and Dean hadn't known. Logically, he knew there was no way he could have known, not if Sam didn't want him to. Still, it felt like he should have. Somehow.

"Why?" he managed to get out.

"I - I knew I needed to see you again, talk to you, even if you didn't want to see me. I found out some things you need to know and …"

"And what?"

"I was worried," Sam said. "I wanted to be close, just in case. There are still things out there that hated John Winchester and who have no reservations about taking it out on his son. Now that you know, it's only a matter of time before other things find out too."

Dean nodded. His insides felt like they were staging a riot, and when he opened his mouth it took a few tries before his voice would work.

"When you left," he said carefully, "you just disappeared, and I thought…" He couldn't finish.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam said, his voice rough. "I shouldn't have, but I was. I was afraid I'd hurt you. My powers. I could feel how out of control they were getting, and I didn't think I could control them, not around you. I was too confused."

Dean nodded. That was fair. That made sense.

"And. Christ, Dean, you couldn't even look at me. I was pretty sure you didn't want me around."

"I didn't know what I wanted," Dean admitted. "It was too big. I couldn't know. Not then."

"Okay, but don't do that again, Dean. Don't go out alone like that again. I'll stay in the city, you'll just have to call me if something comes up, okay?"

Dean was silent a few minutes while he thought. And reaching a decision wasn't like reaching a decision at all, just acknowledging a truth he hadn't been able to before. And he felt light. So light.

"You should come home," Dean said.

Sam's head jerked up. "What?"

"You should _come home_. If you want to."

"Dean…"

"I don't care. Okay? I don't care about any of it. I just … I need you. With me. I don't care about anything else."

"If I do," Sam said slowly, "it doesn't have to be-"

"I want it to be," Dean interrupted. "I want. That. You. I mean, if you do."

And Sam just looked at him, eyes wide and surprised, and pleased. And then Sam smiled, a big huge Sam grin, and Dean thought, _yeah. Really fucking pleased. _

"Really?" Sam asked.

"Yes, really," Dean said.

Because his life wasn't right without Sam in it, and maybe it was fucked up, it sure as hell wasn't normal, but it was still right. The rightest Dean had ever been. Besides, he was a goddamn bisexual ghost hunting fireman. Normal was not going to be part of his life.

Sam surged across the couch and cupped Dean's face in his hands. Dean's face hurt, he was smiling so hard, and he couldn't stop. Sam leaned in close until his lips were millimeters from Dean's and Dean could feel his breath on his lips when Sam whispered, "Okay?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed. And then Sam's lips touched his and every little part of Dean that was broken, had been broken all these months, put themselves back together again under Sam's gentle kiss.

And it was nice. Better than nice, it was great, but Dean thought, fuck gentle, and pulled Sam closer to him, opened his mouth and deepened this kiss as much as he could, just needing more. More of Sam. Everywhere.

Sam seemed to agree, settling himself on top of Dean, burying his hand in Dean's hair, and opening his mouth as wide as it would go.

And all Dean could think was, _yes_.

\---

Dean woke when the first rays of sunshine hit his eyes. He and Sam had never made it off the couch, and Sam was still laid out on top of him, face tucked into his neck. Their clothes were tangled and bunched from sleeping in them, and Sam was way heavier than he looked.

It was perfect.

Sam was awake, but didn't move except to whisper, "hey," in to Dean's skin.

"Hey," Dean replied and reached up to brush his hand through Sam's hair. Dean considered falling back asleep, but it was getting brighter, and the couch really wasn't that comfortable, and something Sam had said the night before was nagging at him.

"What did you find out?" Dean asked when his mind decided he really wasn't going back to sleep.

Sam lifted his head and rested his chin on Dean's chest. "What?"

"What did you find out that you came back to tell me?"

Sam's expression turned serious and Dean wanted to kick himself for bringing it up. The last family revelation had nearly destroyed him, he didn't know if he could take another one. But before he could take it back, Sam was sitting up, shoving Dean's legs aside in the process, which was just as well because Dean didn't want to be on his back when he heard this. Sam reached into his backpack and pulled out a brown leather journal - their dad's.

Sam flipped through the pages and Dean told himself that there wasn't a thing in the world that could break him and Sam apart, not if they could survive finding out they were brothers. No matter what it was, he'd still have Sam. Probably.

Sam found what he was looking for and handed the journal to Dean without a word. Dean took it and Sam shifted so that their hips were pressed together.

Dean looked at the page.

_Strigas_ was written at the top. The page was filled with drawings and pictures and facts. Fed off spiritus vitae, preferred children, took on human disguise, vulnerable to blessed iron while feeding.

"What -" he started.

"Turn the page," Sam said softly. Dean did.

_February 21, 1986_, it said, _Got word from Deacon about a possible striga in Lincoln. It's in the same neighborhood as Dean. I can't reach anyone who will tell me if Dean is alright. I'm leaving tonight._

February 23, 1986. It got Dean. Oh God, it got Dean.

February 24, 1986. The striga is dead. Dean's going to be okay. I didn't stay after finding out. I couldn't stay. It was too tempting. If I had stayed any longer I would have taken Dean and never let him go. I've been away from my boys too long. It kills me every day not to have them with me.

But what kind of life can I offer them - always on the move, always in danger. That's not the life Mary would have wanted for them. It's not the life they deserve. There are so many days when I wish I didn't know what's really out there, about all the evil in this world. I'll do anything to spare them knowing what I know. To keep them innocent.

One day this demon will be gone and then … then we can be a family again.

That was all. The next page was full of newspaper clippings about suspicious suicides.

Dean closed the journal, his mind reeling.

"I just thought you'd like to know," Sam said hesitantly. "That he didn't just abandon you. And that the striga…"

"Yeah," Dean said, though it had barely sunk in.

Dean thought about the Impala and John driving nonstop to save his life and that fucking fire at the records office, which probably wasn't an accident at all. It was too much.

He dropped the journal on the coffee table. "Let's go to bed," he said.

"Dean…"

"Seriously, Sam. I'm tired. I've barely slept the past three nights. I'll think about it later."

"Okay," Sam nodded.

They stripped down to their boxers and slipped under the covers. Dean _was_ exhausted, but instead of falling asleep, he found himself talking, telling Sam about Bobby and his stories, and his cars, and all the station gossip Sam had missed. Then Sam told him more about Missouri and hunting a ghul in Oklahoma.

Somewhere in the middle of a story about Ellen's daughter and a clan of malicious pixies, Dean fell asleep.

But that was okay because Sam would be there when he woke up, and Dean would call off work so they could have sex, and then they'd get takeout and have sex again, and then they'd find another hunt and they'd save some lives, and they'd still be together and they'd be okay.

 

Epilogue

"She was not into you," Dean said flatly, pointing at Terry with his fork. "She was scared of you. Because you were acting like a freak."

"Hey," Terry said. "Who's calling who a freak here?"

"Takes one to know one," Dean said cheekily. Standing at the sink, Mike laughed.

"Takes one to know what?" Sam asked from the doorway.

Dean turned with a grin. "Hey! I thought you had class."

"Canceled," Sam said. He pulled a chair out and sat next to Dean, then promptly stole his fork and started eating off his plate.

Dean held out his hand impatiently. Sam rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. "The car's fine, Dean," he said and put the keys in Dean's hand.

"Sam, back me up here," Terry said. "Tuesday night. That woman was totally into me, right?"

Sam wrinkled his nose. "I think she was scared of you, dude."

"Goddammit!"

"So how about tonight?" Mike asked, taking a seat. "You gentlemen up to watching Terry strike out again?"

Sam shook his head. "Can't tonight. We have a thing to do."

Mike rolled his eyes. "You two and your 'things.' If you're just going to stay home and have sex, you can say so."

Actually, what they had to do involved a black dog on a farm 45 minutes out of the city.

"Pervert," Dean snorted.

Underneath the table, Sam hooked his foot around Dean's ankle, and Dean smiled.


End file.
